


You're My Home

by nefertiti



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, F/F, Minor Character Death, Rule 63, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-22 14:26:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 45,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2510981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nefertiti/pseuds/nefertiti
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s only after a few minutes of standing in her room, alone with her racing thoughts, that Grantaire notices something: how angry she feels. It’s because she cares, and she doesn’t know how that happened.</p><p>When she was young, a beautiful, blonde girl told her she was from another planet sent here to protect the earth, and all she could do was laugh. It was hilarious. She didn’t even think the world could be saved. Now, she isn’t letting it be destroyed without a fight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're My Home

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was such a labour of love, and sometimes hate if I'm being truthful. I'm so glad it's off my hands and finally out for everyone to see. 
> 
> I want to say a very, very special thanks to [Betsy](http://liberteegalitehomosexualite.tumblr.com/) who was very patient with helping me smooth out the roughness of the story. And stuck with me to the last minute to help me tidy everything up. She was such a huge help. I have no idea what this story would look like without her. 
> 
> I also want to thank [Mandy](http://merjolras.tumblr.com/) who made me really, really beautiful art for this. It's so gorgeous. [Take a look at it here.](http://merjolras.tumblr.com/post/100908917371/my-art-for-ladytaires-gorgeous-epic-youre-my)

The sunlight strikes Grantaire’s face like a bolt of lightning, rousing her from sleep. Her curtains have been flung open by some inconsiderate asshole, without a care for her delicate eyes or her need for rest. She tries shutting her eyes tighter in the hopes that she’d see nothing but darkness and slowly drift back into the depths of sleep, but it doesn’t work. She’s as awake as she can be - no hopes of acquainting herself with sweet, sweet slumber any time soon.

The red headed girl sleeping next to her startles awake as well. Grantaire doesn’t remember the girl’s name but she was fun, and Grantaire likes fun. She appreciates fun. The girl groans and flops her head back down on Grantaire’s shoulder - and Grantaire, well she shares the sentiment.

Grantaire takes a very wild guess at who this oh-so-inconsiderate asshole could possibly be - and lo, she blinks her eyes open to discover a frustrated Enjolras standing in front of the window, arms crossed. She’s illuminated by the sun - almost like a painting, all soft transcendence and golden, glowing perfection, with a halo of light as though she’s an angel sent to Earth (and perhaps Grantaire’s exaggerating, just a bit but she doesn’t think this is fair at all.)

Elisabetta would weep, Bernini would weep, Botticelli would weep, Grantaire would weep herself if she wasn’t so frustrated by the entire damned thing. No one should be allowed to look this beautiful so early in the day, or _ever,_ really. It’s not bloody fair.

“Was that really fucking necessary?” Grantaire croaks, flinging her arm over her face.

“I’m sorry.” Enjolras’ words say, but her expression says _I’m not even a little bit sorry._ “It’s after one and you weren’t answering your phone.”

Yes, and the reason why she wasn’t answering is obviously such a fucking mystery.

“Because I was fucking sleeping,” she says with a sigh, scrubbing her hand over her face in an attempt to wipe the sleep out of her eyes.

“Yes, well. We’ve been called in on something important.” Normally, something like that would sound nonchalant, but Enjolras is betrayed by the underlying irritation in her voice. “I’m sorry if that bothers you. Maybe I’ll ask the Somali police to _reschedule_ the hostage situation at the bank. Tell me, what time would be most convenient for you?”

 

It’s a recent thing, this snarky attitude of hers when it comes to Grantaire, and she never thought that Enjolras would take to this blunt sort of sarcasm so easily - but here they are, and apparently she’s fucking ace at it as she is at everything else. And Grantaire’s already irritated, because out of country fights means having to be accompanied by a Commissioner of police, and they only ever get stuck with the one who hates their guts the most.

“I know you’re being sarcastic, but I’d say an hour, give or take a few minutes.”

Enjolras’ nose flares and Grantaire almost asks if she’s woken the dragon, but she’s already pushing it and she’s _really_ not in the mood for one of their fights. Not when she’s this tired. (And she isn’t even hungover - fuck, is she going soft?)

The girl currently taking up the test of the bed blearily opens her eyes again. It doesn’t shock Grantaire much. Very few people are adept at sleeping through their bickering, although there was a very interesting bloke a few months back who slumbered through one of their more explosive fights. Possessions were destroyed, windows were broken, and Grantaire had to find a new flat afterwards - but the guy slept on. Grantaire respected the resilience.

 

“R?” the girl groans, pressing her face against Grantaire’s shoulder. Grantaire feels for the girl, she really does. She’s been there. She’s there right now, come to think of it. Enjolras, on the other hand, apparently _doesn’t_ empathise, as she makes clear with the loud tapping of her feet.

When the girl looks up and notices Enjolras she gawks - and again, Grantaire can empathise. Enjolras tends to have that effect on people. Looking at her is like being hit with a sledgehammer. Or, more specifically, an intense, terrifying sledgehammer that can probably kill you in your sleep.

“You’re E,” she breathes. She turns to face Grantaire, setting her wide eyes upon her. “I guess you two have to go, then?”

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Grantaire says, and she means it, too. She would much rather stay in bed with a gorgeous, redhead with eyes like jade  than go fight crime or whatever the fuck it is she’s supposed to be doing right now. “Duty calls and all that.”

The redhead in question nods slowly and throws the covers off of herself, apparently unconcerned with her nudity, then rolls out of Grantaire’s bed with a rueful smile. “I probably won’t be seeing you again I suppose.”

“Probably not.” Grantaire shrugs, ignoring the way Enjolras rolls her eyes.

(Grantaire doesn’t get why Enjolras thinks she has the right to be so judgemental about Grantaire’s one night stands. Grantaire has seen her go off with people on the few occasions Grantaire manages to actually drag her to clubs. She’s seen - and seethed at- some other girl’s hand in Enjolras’ hair, some other girl pulling Enjolras into a kiss, some other girl taking Enjolras’ hand and leading her to a backroom to do things that Grantaire couldn’t even begin to think about without getting unreasonably jealous. But then again, Grantaire supposes it _is_ a little different. Those moments come by very rarely, and Enjolras has never let anything like sex get in the way of her work. She’d never do that - Grantaire has.

So perhaps she _can_ be a little bit judgemental, because if Grantaire had to choose between sex and work, she’d - no, on second thought, she’d choose work, because work means being around Enjolras and she’ll always choose that over anything else in the world.)

“Pity,” the redhead says, her smile growing wicked. “This was fun. I was sort of hoping for another go.”

She seems at ease as she searches through her room for her clothes and puts them on, almost provocatively, in plain view of Enjolras. The blonde in question sets her gaze upon Grantaire’s curtains with sudden interest and the girl, knowing a lost cause when she sees one, leaves the room with a sigh. It’s not the first time that one of Grantaire’s one night stands has tried to seduce Enjolras right in front of her and she doubts it’ll be the last.

The front door closes a few moments later. Grantaire drags the covers over herself more securely and pulls herself up into a sitting position.

“I hope you appreciate the sacrifices that I make for you,” says, glaring at Enjolras half-heartedly.

“We have work to do. And it’s in Somalia so we have to start flying now if we want to get there before everyone _dies_.” Enjolras wrinkles her nose in disgust before exiting the room swiftly.

Grantaire doesn’t even bother sighing. Repulsing Enjolras is nothing new to her. Everyone has their crosses to bear and apparently hers just had to be disgusting the woman that she loves day in and day out for the rest of her life.

She’s sure it could be worse.

-

Grantaire flies around the thief, confusing the woman with her speedy zooming. It distracts her enough that Grantaire can get some rope around her.

These kinds of fights are different from their usual intergalactic battles. These are the kind of fights that involve human beings, and Grantaire gets that in a way that Enjolras never has - so she’s much gentler than Enjolras would have been when she pushes the robber up against the wall. She’s still tying her up with the rope the woman herself had used to get inside the bank when one of the woman’s accomplices tries to tackle her to the floor, and that’s really just his mistake, because Grantaire floors him within a second and works the rope so that both criminals are firmly bound together with the cord.

Enjolras is still working as quickly as she can to defuse the bomb that’s been strapped onto a little girl. Grantaire doesn’t envy her that job at all - it takes far more concentration than kicking the shit out of someone, even with the frantic hostages long out of the building. Grantaire doesn’t walk over to ask her how it’s coming along lest she breaks her stride.

The thought of putting children and innocent civilians in danger makes Grantaire fume, so she really can’t be blamed for being much rougher than she’d be with a human as she drags them outside and hands them over to the police.

“What’s going on in there?” Javert, the Commissioner, asks gruffly while Detective Irma smirks at her. Javert _really_ doesn’t like her - or Enjolras for that matter. The fact that he actually needs them makes him dislike them even more, much to Grantaire’s amusement.

Irma, on the other hand, seems just as delighted at his frustration as Grantaire is, which really endears Grantaire to her. She’s her favourite officer in this region, really. Irma doesn’t actually like _her_ that much, probably because she’s drunkenly hit on her a few times in their early days working with the department in this region, and she thinks there was a point where she compared Irma’s bright, green hair to vomit but that’s beside the point. The point is that Irma dislikes Javert even more than she dislikes Grantaire, and she laughs at Grantaire’s jokes. That’s all she really asks for in a person.

“E is defusing the bomb they strapped to the five year old girl,” Grantaire says calmly. She tugs at her light green collar - her suit isn't the most flattering item of clothing she has, but it's easy to move around in, which is what really matters. She can hardly imagine doing this in jeans and a T-shirt, even if the suit is tight and she finds the heat constricting. “She’ll be done in a second or so.”

Grantaire’s words prove true: just as she’s finished talking, Enjolras leads a tiny, trembling child out of the bank. She clutches Enjolras hand, and Grantaire barely stops herself from cooing over the scene. She isn’t sure if she’s doing a good job of it, as Irma is arching a brow at her.

The girl rushes off to her parents the moment she sees them, leaving Enjolras to join her and the Commissioner by the squad car.

“Thank you for your help.” Javert says, between clenched teeth. “We have it from here.”

“You are most welcome Commissioner.” Grantaire grins, turning her attention back to Javert. “The help we provide benefits _the world_ and we’re _so_ _very_ happy to do it.”

Irma has to conceal her laugh as a cough while Grantaire pulls her expression into a smirk she’s been told looks smarmy and irritating, but it’s her party and she can gloat if she wants to thank you very much. That is until-

“We _are_ pleased that no one is hurt. It’s our duty to help the people of this planet the best that we can,” Enjolras says earnestly. “And R is right. We’re very happy to do it.”

Grantaire heaves a sigh. Enjolras just _has_ to ruin Grantaire’s self-satisfied gloating. Every fucking time. Pity it doesn’t make Javert or anyone else in any law enforcement service like them any more.

-

Grantaire buys them the greasiest street food she can find, the way she usually does after a mission, when they make it back to London. When she reaches Enjolras' flat, Enjolras is nowhere to be found, which means that she’s in one place.

Enjolras likes sitting on the sky roof after a mission, says it relaxes her. Grantaire barely understands why. The view is just as spectacular from the penthouse, but she claims to like the cool breeze around her, and Grantaire can understand that, at least.

Grantaire sets the burgers down on the kitchen table and heads up the stairs to find Enjolras sitting on the edge of the roof, watching the sky. Her hair’s growing out again. She’d cut it almost all off last year, frustrated by its tendency to whip around her face when she flew around. Her golden locks just barely touch her shoulders now.

Grantaire barely likes admitting it to herself, but watching Enjolras at peace and looking at the stars makes her heart flutter.

Grantaire used to be able to see this part of Enjolras more often when they lived together. They don't anymore - Grantaire moved out within the third year of them being roommates because while she may be a glutton for punishment, she has her limits. A method to her madness, or something of the sort.

Her masochism just doesn’t extend far enough to allow for Enjolras waking up every morning and smiling sleepily at her, walking around in only a towel, or waxing poetic about justice and serving the people. It doesn’t extend far enough for Grantaire to cope with pretty much constant, bitter arguments and then tip-toe around the flat for days afterwards as though walking on eggshells all whilst Enjolras just seems unperturbed. It doesn’t extend far enough for her be so bloody obvious about how much she loves Enjolras when she knows that Enjolras doesn’t love her back.

She rationalized that maybe her love for the woman would fade if she didn’t have to be around her during all those intimate moments. If their relationship was strictly a business one.

It’s been two years since and Grantaire’s heartstrings still tighten at the sight of Enjolras, but she’s stopped practically keening like a heartbroken puppy every time Enjolras enters the room so - she thinks she’s making progress.

Enjolras turns around to smile at Grantaire, the silver bracelet on her wrist glinting in the moonlight. Grantaire looks at her own matching bracelet, the one that marks her as who she is. It always seems to glow in Enjolras’ presence, as though illuminated by her light, and Grantaire sighs. Whoever said that absence made the heart grow fonder really knew their shit. Grantaire wants to say so many different things looking at that glow in Enjolras’ smile.

She wants to say that she’s made a mistake and she wants to move back in. She wants to say that not constantly being around Enjolras makes her feel as though someone’s poured gravel down her throat, cut her open and is trying to pick it out piece by piece without the aid of painkillers. She wants to say that she misses her even though she still sees her practically every day. She wants to say a lot of things, but she doesn’t.

Instead, after a few minutes of silence, Grantaire just says, “I’m going home, okay? Your burger is on the kitchen table.”

Enjolras’ smile almost imperceptibly dims at Grantaire’s words but its brightness is back before Grantaire can even ascertain whether or not it was a trick of the light. She just assumes that it was - that she imagined it.

“Remember the interview tomorrow,” Enjolras calls, as she reaches the door.

“I always do.”

-

“Grantaire, it’s so nice to meet you,” the interviewer begins. She rests a high speed voice recorder on the coffee table and Grantaire tries to contain a groan.

She hates interviews, and she hates that she has to do them.

She’s a lot better at dealing with the press than Enjolras, so Enjolras gets to retain much more anonymity which in Grantaire’s opinion, is wasted on her. No one even knows Enjolras’ full name - to everyone else, she’s just E. Mainly that’s because, unlike Enjolras, Grantaire is a people person.

This probably has a lot to do with the fact that Grantaire actually _grew up_ around people and had very little access to alien technology and books and friend-protectors and all the other things that Enjolras grew up with. Enjolras is far more socially awkward than Grantaire ever thought it was possible for another person to be, and it doesn’t help that she’s always harping on about service and duty and justice and the sort.

And that? That’s why Grantaire can’t let her talk to people. She goes on about their cause all earnestly and avidly and even with their powers (or abilities as Enjolras prefers to call them,) Grantaire is _still_ attempting to convince people that they aren’t fucking insane. And facing Enjolras and her righteous fervour really isn’t the thing that will help change that notion.

So, it has to be Grantaire who gets to sit in a stuffy and way-too-expensive pantsuit while a pretty, Korean girl with light brown hair, who regretfully happens to be a journalist - which pretty much makes any attraction Grantaire might have felt for her wilt away and die - asks her questions about her job.

When she was younger and obsessed with comic books she didn’t really understand superheroes and their need for secrecy, but now she gets - gets why the needed to live double lives.

In theory it sounds ridiculous - between flimsy masks that pretty much show your whole face except for your eyes and the amount of coincidences and slip ups and fights happening around the workplace, it seems impossible to not be found out, so when Grantaire was young and a naïve idiot, she always got irritated with them for even bothering.

Thinking back now to those days of innocence, makes her nostalgic - Grantaire would readily have two identities right now if it means not attending hearings that question hers and Enjolras’ sanity or ability to protect the earth or whether or not they even deserve the right to not be locked up and experimented on. If it means that she doesn’t have to spend so much time signing autographs, or fielding questions about their fucking wardrobes or their relationship or their powers. Because in reality, human beings (one of which she had spent much of her life assuming she was) are much smarter than they are in the movies.

They had tried for a life of obscurity for a while, mainly for personal safety reasons, but there was absolutely no possible way for them to hide their otherworldliness when she and Enjolras had gotten themselves into a full-fledged battle with a couple of reptilian creatures from Minettia (one of the most vicious attacker planets out there, according to Enjolras)which had managed to almost destroy a small town in Monaco, injuring Grantaire pretty badly along the way - but that part was actually sort of her fault. Enjolras didn’t speak to Grantaire for a week after she was released from the hospital in Monaco, and she never let Grantaire forget about what happened.

Enjolras is pretty great at holding a grudge.

Grantaire has no idea how any past protectors kept their identity a secret, but she wishes she had a time machine so that she could go back and ask them. Since, well, questions had been asked, and Grantaire may be a promiscuous, alcoholic, asshole with daddy issues, but she’s no Tony Stark.

She doesn’t have the whole _pretty_ , _rich, white guy who can get away with anything_ charm going for her.

Basically, they were revealed and while she and Enjolras are (reluctantly) given free authority to do what they can when it comes to creatures from outer space and incredibly brutal or urgent cases that the police can’t contain on their own, they’re still treated with wary mistrust by most government officials.

Grantaire finds it hard to blame them sometimes.

The general public, however, adores them. Real life superheroes, here to save the day. Protectors of the Earth. The media caught onto the hype faster than Grantaire could blink, and all of a sudden, she and Enjolras both became things of fascination and intrigue.

It’s kind of fun on some days, but then there are days like this.

“Call me R.” Grantaire says with as charming a grin as she can muster.

“R then,” the reporter says, flashing Grantaire a nervous smile. “So, let’s start.”

She questions her about the previous day’s work, and Grantaire answers as best as she can. It goes well until the reporter descends into the tripe, unavoidable questions that somehow always manage to crop up.

“Why did you two settle on the name ER?”

“Because we’ll put you in the ER if you fuck with innocent civilians.”

“... I’m ... not going to put that in.”

Grantaire grins and inclines her head, because that’s fair. “They’re our initials, and neither of us are particularly creative.”

That’s a lie. Grantaire was unconscious when they got found out, and going on what Enjolras told her later, Enjolras got blindsided by the Monacan press and just blurted out the first thing she could think of. This is why Grantaire’s the one who deals with the press now - it’s been scientifically proven that Enjolras is just no good at it.

“Moving on, have you always wanted to be a superhero?”

Always that bloody question. She’s spent a lot of time not answering it seriously. No. She has never at any point in her life ever wanted to be a superhero. She still doesn’t want to be a superhero. She never asked for a (probably not so crazy from a retrospective angle) blonde, angelic creature to inform her that she was from a different planet and it’s her destiny to help protect the earth.

Her destiny.  Right. _This_ is what she’s meant to be doing for the rest of her life.

“I wouldn’t call myself a superhero.” Grantaire says with a grin, then continues into her typical axiom. “I’m more of a police officer with extra juice. I keep trying to get into the academy to make it official, but they say blood test and I freeze up.”

She’s not actually lying there. The police kind of hate her now because of how often she’s actually sent in her resume, but apparently, rejection is something she didn’t know she was into.

The reporter laughs, and Grantaire relaxes. “Well, what do you think of all the new up and coming police officers with extra juice, then? The Blue Nightingale, Belladonna, The Masked Marauder, although I think he’s more of a super villain than a superhero, all of whom idolise you, from what I’ve heard.”

“Well, I think they should all stop trying to be like me unless we share the same invincibility.” Grantaire snaps, and then sighs as the girl looks at her hesitantly. “I’m sorry. Don’t- don’t put that in.”

“Did I push a button?” She looks a little worried - Grantaire feels like shit for snapping.

“No. It’s just, sorry for being, well, an asshole, Miss...”

“Call me Cosette.”

“Cosette. I just keep thinking of all the people who’ll potentially get hurt if this superhero craze gets any more popular,” Grantaire says. “Or even worse, if it starts to get treated as an in thing rather than a necessary duty.”

She’s actually hearing Enjolras’ words coming out of her mouth as though she pressed play on a recorder, and she cringes slightly. She really hopes Enjolras doesn’t read this article.

“More _popular_?” Cosette cocks her head to the side. Fire blazes in her eyes, then fades. It strikes Grantaire for just a brief moment at exactly how much she looked like Enjolras when she did that especially since she’s almost as beautiful as her too. “Most people don’t have your natural talent but technology is improving every day. People like my father, soldiers, detectives, police officers - they all put their lives on the line to protect people. Isn’t that what you do, except on a wider scale? Why can’t other people try?”

“I’m not saying _no_ , I just don’t want people treating this like a fad. It’s a dangerous job, and technology hasn’t improved enough to battle people from other planets. That’s why I’m here. Those fights are better left to people like me - people who aren’t all that breakable.” Grantaire says, dragging her hand over her face. “And you can put that in.”

“On the record now, I just want to ask, as we’re talking about people who aren’t that breakable.” Cosette leans forward, and Grantaire smirks.  She already knows what’s coming. This is another question she’s spent enough time answering without really answering.  “The blonde in red, your partner. E.”

“ _The blonde in red_.” Grantaire repeats, scratching her wrist around her bracelet and smirking imperceptibly. “That’s a much better moniker than ‘E.’ I can see why you’re a writer.”

She huffs and rolls her eyes. Grantaire’s beginning to feel endeared towards her. Most interviewers are so busy with the hero worship it’s almost as though they forget that she’s still a person underneath it all.

“So? What’s the story with you two?” she asks. “How did you meet? Did you grow up together? Are you two the same … thing?”

“You wouldn’t believe the real story if I told you,” Grantaire says with a wink, earning her another roll of the eyes.

“Try me,” Cosette shoots back, a challenge in her voice.

“You’d have to buy me a drink first.”

-

Grantaire was fourteen the day that she and Enjolras met, but she remembers it as though it had happened yesterday. Why wouldn't she? It was the day her life changed forever, and she's not just saying that to sound melodramatic.

She and Montparnasse had skipped school to drink in the park like the proper lower rung public school twats that they were, so she didn’t actually notice the way her left arm was heating up. Montparnasse was posing for her on the park bench so that she could sketch him when a blonde, angel-faced girl in ratty clothes, probably not more than twelve, came up to them and said:

“Today is the day our lives are going to change forever, if you’ll let them.”

Enjolras always _has_ been theatrical.

But Grantaire didn’t know her then, and she was blitzed off her ass, so naturally she laughed in the girl’s face. Montparnasse looked five seconds away from slugging Enjolras.

Grantaire, the type of person to invite mental patients to hang out with her, did just that - much to Montparnasse’s irritation.

“What’s your name?” Montparnasse asked the new girl gruffly as she sat down next to Grantaire.

“You don’t need to know that,” she replied, curtly. When Montparnasse opened his mouth, most likely to tell her to piss off, she continued, “And I don’t care to know yours.”

Montparnasse and Grantaire burst out in simultaneous laughter while Enjolras looked slightly uncomfortable. They spent the rest of the afternoon talking - well Grantaire and Montparnasse did. Enjolras only seemed bored by their conversation.

It wasn’t until Montparnasse left to go pick his foster brother up from school, casting one suspicious glance back at Enjolras before departing, that the girl started talking again.

For the most part Grantaire didn’t listen to what she was saying - it sounded like the typical ramblings of a mentally ill person, albeit with more originality. She was babbling on about aliens and outer space and all that crap, and it was uninteresting enough that Grantaire didn’t pay her much attention, instead focusing on finishing up her sketch. Enjolras was beautiful and seemingly insane, but nothing special in Grantaire’s eyes. Back then, Grantaire was practically a professional juvenile delinquent - _Montparnasse’s_ friend. It would take something far more interesting than beauty, madness and a posh accent to intrigue her.

“Don’t you care?” Enjolras had asked.

“About what?” Grantaire replied, without even looking up, her pencil speeding across the page.

“About our home planet. About Aracletria. About our duty.”

Grantaire looked up at her, shocked. She examined at the girl carefully - she was just a child. “Go along and play, kid. You’ll get grey hair at the rate you’re going.”

“I’m not a kid,” Enjolras said harshly. “We’re the same age. And we have work to do. How can you just-”

When it became clear that Grantaire wasn’t listening to her, Enjolras huffed, dragged Grantaire to a remote little corner of the park, and kissed her thoroughly. Grantaire isn’t proud of it, but she almost choked when Enjolras stuck her tongue in her mouth. She barely even noticed something like a silver bracelet starting to take shape on her wrist from nothing, burning into her skin - because this beautiful, crazy girl was kissing her.

That was the fun part.

Because after kissing her - which Grantaire was very much up for more of - Enjolras produced a knife from her pocket and stabbed her in the leg which- well, it fucking hurt, for one.

When her wound healed within seconds of its creation, Grantaire felt somewhat more inclined to believe Enjolras’ story. _(Fucking Enjolras and her fucking theatrics.)_

Grantaire hyperventilated, as one does when they’ve been violently harmed by a random stranger. And Enjolras just seemed exasperated by it- all Grantaire could think at the time was, fuck her very much.

She was too busy trying to come to terms with a few things. Well, just one thing, really: she was an alien. From a different planet. A planet that was not earth.  A planet called Aracletria. A planet that’s in outer space. A planet that was not earth that was called Aracletria that was outer space and was a different planet.

Enjolras explained to Grantaire when she calmed down that the sharing of DNA was necessary for them to function at full capacity. It helped their bodies to understand that they were near each other and ready to work - which Grantaire absolutely was _not_ , but she wasn’t about to tell the no-longer-quite-so-crazy person-alien who just stabbed her that.

She and Enjolras became inseparable after that day out of obligation, and what Enjolras had initially told her was an inevitability, and they were about as compatible as dogs and cats but that didn’t stop Enjolras from showing her all of the books, teaching her how to use all the technology, of Aracletria and helping her hone all of her own abilities. (If there’s one thing she’s learned about Enjolras after that day it was that Enjolras just loves to blather on about fucking Aracletria.) She even introduced Grantaire to all of her friend-protectors, who Grantaire grew quite close to - and yet, Grantaire still thinks of Aracletria as someone else’s home, not hers.

Everything still feels like fiction to her. As though she’s going to wake up one morning and she’s still going to be a fourteen year old dosser with bad hair and too many pimples preparing for a day of smoking in the park with Montparnasse.

-

Enjolras is sitting on Grantaire’s sofa and holding the morning paper in her hands, looking at Grantaire as though she wants to flay her alive. If Enjolras didn’t generally spend the majority of her time looking at Grantaire like that, she would be afraid - she’s seen many a soon-to-be-dead-persons on the other end of that look. As it is, that look tends to be on Enjolras’ face more often than not when Grantaire’s around. Grantaire is kind of immune to it, though - she responds with a cheeky grin.

“Did you break into my flat?” Grantaire stands in front of Enjolras with her arms folded, a smirk on her face. “I ought to call that finicky superhero team on you.”

A vein in Enjolras’ head throbs, and if Grantaire wasn’t sure that nothing too fatal could really happen to the girl, she’d probably be worried. She tends to annoy Enjolras on a daily basis, partly out of amusement and mostly without even trying, but she doesn’t want the woman to get an aneurysm. Even though she won’t die given their durability, aneurysms are still painful and the thought of Enjolras in pain makes her heart hurt - despite herself, Grantaire really does love her. Grantaire _has_ always been way too stupid for one person.

Case in point.

“Did you read the paper today?” Enjolras asks, the vein in her head throbbing again. Grantaire lifts her hands and steps towards Enjolras before stilling and letting her hand fall back to her side. Her fingers ache to massage Enjolras’ temples until she’s relaxed, an Enjolras that isn’t relaxed tends to be a very violently angry Enjolras, and-

 _Oh_. Oh, right.

Being in love is stupid because it makes you stupid, and Grantaire can hardly afford to be add any more stupidity to her already obviously addled brain. You see, if Grantaire _wasn’t_ stupid, she would have stopped after two drinks with Cosette, and she would _not_ have rambled on about gorgeous goddesses stabbing her in the park.

Which is exactly how her introduction to Enjolras played out.

It’s hardly her fault that the way they met happened to be so fucking strange - their entire _life_ is strange. Frankly, that was just the strange icing on the strange cake of strangeness.

The Illiad is Sunday brunch compared to the way they met, a walk in the park - okay well Grantaire might be over-exaggerating, just a bit,  but it was a pretty fucking spectacular introduction and she can’t help it if alcohol loosens her tongue, and -- right, she should be using these excuses out loud - that’s what she should be doing.

“We went out drinking after the interview and it just … slipped out,” Grantaire says, trying to defend herself.

Enjolras’ face twists in disgust, and Grantaire doesn’t even bother feeling bad about it. Enjolras always looks disgusted when Grantaire mentions drinking, or when she talks, or when she breathes, or when she keeps doing that thing where she exists.

“ _It slipped out._ How on earth are you so stupid?” Enjolras asks, looking at the ceiling as though she’s begging it for the patience to not murder Grantaire. “It makes no sense that you’re _this_ stupid.”

That’s what Grantaire keeps saying to herself, actually.

“I didn’t say anything that wasn’t the truth.” Grantaire tries not to pout and she knows she’s failing, but she fucked up and already feels like horseshit about it without Enjolras reprimanding her.

“Our continued survival relies on public opinion, how do you think they’ll react to your description of the knife brandishing mental patient who randomly stabs people.” Enjolras growls the last part, then takes a breath to calm herself down. She’s saying what Grantaire already knows - Grantaire knows people, and she knows how much their reactions to what she says counts, and-

 _Grantaire_ knows how human beings work. Enjolras, on the other hand, does not.

Grantaire raises an eyebrow, “Okay, I know you didn’t come up with that on your own. Have you been talking to Combeferre?”

Enjolras’ cheeks tint pink - barely noticeable to the naked eye, but Grantaire knows her, and she knows that she’s right.

“That’s beside the point,” Enjolras argues.

“Of course it is,” Grantaire mutters.

Enjolras glares at her and she falls silent. This is her fault. She can’t really fight Enjolras on this one, can she? Well, she can but it’d be pointless.

“Talk to a fellow protector. Hell, talk to Montparnasse if he’s speaking to you this week, but you’re _going_ to find a way to fix this,” Enjolras says. She drops the paper open on the coffee table and storms out.

Grantaire consoles herself with the knowledge that if Enjolras were truly angry with her, there would be a lot less talking and a lot more dents in the wall.

-

“I have no idea what to do with you two anymore.” Eponine sighs as though they’re fed up with everything and everyone, and they probably are. Grantaire would be, too if she had to deal with herself on a regular basis the way her friends do.

Eponine looks almost real through the Portal Holographic Communicator. Grantaire supposes that she does as well because Eponine reaches out to touch her before dropping their hand belatedly when they grab at nothing but air.

“It’s not my fault,” Grantaire says reflexively.

She's sitting in the tiny control room she set up when she moved to this flat two years ago and realised that she’d have to choose between a communicator or a telly for her room and she does have a fondness for watching that tiny black box while she dozes off.

Grantaire taps her feet as she looks at them. She had planned on calling Jehan first, but then she changed her mind at the last minute. She and Jehan tend to get so carried away when it comes to talking about a problem, that it never actually gets solved. Jehan’s always been insanely obsessed with trying to get Grantaire to work at her owning up to her feelings which is just not something Grantaire  is remotely interested in so it leads to Grantaire changing the subject and employing avoidance tactics and all in all, it’s just never a very helpful experience. Eponine is much better at telling her things candidly whether she wants to hear them or not.

That’s why they scoff at Grantaire’s affirmation and look off portal to what’s probably their dashboard, because they start to read Cosette’s article word for word.

 _“R looked haunted as she recalled being brutally stabbed in the park as a child by the person she now calls her partner. The woman, whom she describes as a mad goddess with hair like an angel, seems to be a sore spot for the soft hearted superhero.”_ \- “I am not soft hearted!” - _“Little is known of E. Her identity is almost a mystery as is her relationship with R, but the infamous duo seem to have more secrets than-_

“Okay. Okay!” Grantaire holds her hands out, willing Eponine to shut up. “So it could quite possibly be my fault. But in my defense, I _did_ have a lot to drink, so ...”

“Marianne help me,” Eponine mutters with a grimace. “You have no idea how happy I am that Feuilly and I were assigned each other.”

Of course they are. They and Feuilly love each other, and _their_ arguments are always easily patched up. They used to argue more when Eponine had a thing for this person they’d grown up with, but Grantaire hadn’t heard Eponine talk of zir lately.

The last time Grantaire called the two of them, Feuilly told her that xe and Eponine were together now. Ever since they and Feuilly began whatever kind of relationship it is they have, Eponine has been more protective of Feuilly than usual, which is sort of sweet.

Neither of them are really interested in love or romantic relationships, but they love each other and they decided to try something new. Apparently in Saturn their type of relationship is called, kismetonic partnering and they seem really content. Grantaire is happy for them - well, maybe she’s a bit jealous too but her happiness outweighs her jealousy tenfold.

“Where _is_ Feuilly?” Grantaire asks, crabbily. “ _Xe’s_ much more sympathetic when it comes to listening to my whining.”

“Xe’s sleeping,” Eponine says, running their hand through their hair - bright fiery red, a beautiful contrast to their blue-and-green-striped skin.“Stop sulking and make a public apology. Use a different reporter and get them to see your side. I don’t think is Earth is that different to any other planet in the universe. You _can_ fix this.”

And _that’s_ why she called Eponine.

“ _Fine_. Tell Feuilly I said to call me when xe-” Grantaire frowns as her stream cuts off suddenly. The hologram flashes to life again only moments later, except this time, it isn’t Eponine, and the stream is obviously not recorded like most broadcasts.

It’s Jehan. Zher face shines with exertion, and there’s a shallow cut running from zher forehead all the way down to zher neck - a very serious wound if it’s still healing. When zhe starts to speak, though, all of Grantaire’s problems suddenly seem stupid.

“An aviceptor full of Minettia raiders is making its way through the solar system. My intelligence says they started at Venus, which means they’re going backwards and making the rounds,” zhe says. “We’ve just come from battle and we’ve done what we could. Neptune is safe, but Bahorel’s still healing.”

Grantaire hears the hitch in zher voice, and wishes she could do something to comfort zher. She suddenly feels grateful that she didn’t call Jehan to rattle on with her ridiculous whining when zhe obviously has much bigger problems to deal with.

“They’re too heavily militarised to just be brigands,” zhe continues. “They’re highly trained, and the only weakness they seem to possess is a few sensitive spots in their wings and some holes in their armour. You have to look out for falling debris or bodies where you can if they get their pincers into you. It was rushed, but we utilised the assistance of a few armed forces. There were some losses, but most soldiers of Neptune remain unharmed.”

Zhe takes a breath and runs a hand over zher shaved scalp. Zhe looks worn and tired, sweat dripping from zher dark skin.

“According to my data, they’re a day away from Uranus. After that, they’ll make it to Saturn.” Grantaire hisses - that’s Eponine and Feuilly. “Then, they’re heading to Jupiter.” Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta.  “Then Mars.” Combeferre and Courfeyrac. “Their last stop is Earth.”

Jehan looks almost ready to pass out. “Marianne help you all.”

“Oh fuck,” Grantaire sighs as the broadcasted stream cuts off.

\--

“This is good for more than one reason.” Enjolras nods from her place on Grantaire’s settee, her expression as solemn as ever.

She found herself in Grantaire’s flat less than five minutes after the broadcast, and judging by her windswept hair and complete lack of shortness of breath, she didn’t run here. She looks ridiculously pristine for someone that flew halfway across town, but that’s something Grantaire’s used to by now.

Grantaire looks up at her while Enjolras practically thrums. “You see there’s nothing about this in particular screams _good_ to me,” Grantaire says, “but you go on.”

Enjolras spares a moment to give her a fleeting look of exasperation before continuing, “They’re coming at us last, which gives us more time to plan and alert the necessary government officials. According to Combeferre, it’s going to take five weeks for the aviceptor to reach Mars.  By those calculations, it will take the Minettia almost two months to reach Earth. If they’re as militarised as Jehan said, this will be a good thing. We might need the help of more than one nation’s National Guard.”

“Why?” asks Grantaire. “We fought them pretty well before, didn’t we?”

“You have a strange concept of _well_ given that you fucked that up for us. But that’s not the point. ” Enjolras waves her hand dismissively. “They were just a few rogue raiders - _this_ is an army.”

“Right,” Grantaire says - ignoring her words for the most part, because if she focuses on them she’ll want to punch something, and right now, they need to discuss this. “Then, we should keep the fight contained in one country, shouldn’t we? More focussed on us than on the population. Less damage. Less casualties.”

This is where they work well together. For all their arguing and sniping at each other, they know when they need to let that go and focus on the bigger picture.

“You’re going to have to call Javert,” Enjolras says, the cup of tea in front of her largely ignored.

Grantaire groans as she commences digging through her pockets for her phone. Best to get _that_ out of the way early.

The conversation with Javert goes as expected: Javert blames her and E for initiating contact with hostile aliens; Grantaire assures her that they didn’t actually initiate anything and they’re just here to help; Javert huffs as though he doesn’t believe a word leaving Grantaire’s mouth; Grantaire narrowly refrains from swearing at him; Javert says he’ll talk to his superiors and hangs up on her abruptly. Grantaire continues to loathe the necessity of interacting with the Commissioner.

“I hate that fucking man,” Grantaire sighs, running a hand through her curls. When she glances up, Enjolras’ eyes are on her, a thoughtful look on her face.  “What’s wrong?”

“I wanted to discuss one more thing with you,” Enjolras says, fiddling with a cushion on Grantaire’s settee. Grantaire waits, a bit confused - Enjolras isn’t usually the type for nervous gestures.

“I think you should move in with me again,” is what she says, and -

And that … is not what Grantaire was expecting. She doesn’t respond, mostly because she doesn’t know how. She wants to scream “YES!” but she also wants to run very, very far away, until she’s safe from Enjolras and her sharp, discerning eyes and hard-to-deny requests.

She only realises that neither have them has spoken for a few minutes when Enjolras huffs impatiently. Enjolras seems to be taking her lack of response as a no, and she looks upset and angry. Grantaire doesn’t know what to do about that.

“It’s the wise thing to do,” Enjolras explains, not quite hiding the touchiness in her tone. “Combeferre’s calculations are a guess as best. We may need to fight at a moment’s notice, and we can’t let our petty differences get in the way of that. We’ve sworn to protect the earth’s people. We don’t want to make this another Monaco incident, where -”

“Enjolras.” Grantaire raises her hands - closes her eyes and takes a breath, so that she doesn’t swear at Enjolras the way she wants to. “First of all, fuck you,” - well, she tried, at least - “and second of all, I didn’t _say_ no.”

“Well, you didn’t say anything at all,” Enjolras says crossly, hackles still raised.

“Whatever,” Grantaire says.  She stands to take their mostly untouched teacups to the kitchen. “I’m going to see Mabeuf first thing tomorrow - he’s a dullard and he’ll take my word for it when I say Cosette misrepresented me.  And _then,_ I’m going to go to my flat and pack my things.”

“I could just do it for you,” Enjolras says. “I’ll clear some space in our flat, dust out your room and bring your stuff over. It’ll be easy.”

Grantaire nods in response. And just like that, Enjolras is off, out through the window.

“I didn’t mean now!” Grantaire yells at the evening sky but Enjolras is already long gone.

-

Okay, so Grantaire doesn’t _exactly_ go to see Mabeuf first thing the next morning. Before that, she needs to have a little chat with Montparnasse.

She and Montparnasse used to be friends, in a strange sort of way. They had the same foster parents for one year when they were kids, and they never lost touch when Grantaire was adopted. Their relationship is more strained now that they’re on different sides of the law, but they’re still them. Even when Grantaire dropped off the face of the earth for three years and came back a bloody fucking superhero, they still managed to retain some semblance of loyalty to each other.

Each of them is oddly protective, if not vaguely wary of, the other. Grantaire hasn’t even let Montparnasse see Enjolras again since that first time, lest she arrest him, or bring him to justice, or any other shit Enjolras keeps saying it’s their job to do. He is, after all, a criminal.

As usual, all dealings with Montparnasse tend to happen in a dank alleyway where no matter what they’re wearing, they’re both overdressed and would appear easy pickings to the stray pickpocket.

Still, Montparnasse sits on the last row of a fire escape in the midst of rubbish and rodents and less-than-pleasant smells as though it’s his kingdom, and it _is_ easier to avoid cameras or excitable fans when Grantaire isn’t in the public’s view. Mainly because no civilian, no matter how drunk or criminal, would consciously set foot in a place this disgusting unless forced. Sweat is trickling down her back - meanwhile Montparnasse has the audacity to look as dry as the Sahara. _He doesn’t sweat,_ he always says. He holds a rose between his two fingers and Grantaire can’t help but wonder, _When did this twit get so pretentious_?

Speaking of said pretentious twit:

“They’re calling you The Masked Marauder now, you pretentious twit,” Grantaire hisses.

“Is it because I have an M on my cape?” asks Montparnasse. “That’s adorable.”

“No, it probably has more to do with the fact that you _rob people_ while wearing a stupid, sparkly cape.”

“So touchy,” Montparnasse says, drolly.                    

“Why do you have to dress so extravagantly just to act like common street thug?” Grantaire asks with a sigh. “It’s not really a job that calls for a diverse wardrobe.”

“Like you can talk,” Montparnasse huffs. “Wear any spandex lately?”

Grantaire groans. She and Enjolras both wear waterproof outfits made out of a material of Aracletria that’s almost impossible to penetrate, but it is _not_ fucking spandex.

“Tosh. I’ve never worn spandex in my life. Take that back, or I might be forced to slap you.”

Montparnasse laughs, flashing his sharp, gleaming teeth, and smiles at her almost fondly. “You’re an idiot.”

“Can you just _try_ not to be so conspicuous?” Grantaire sighs.

“Why? You gonna call the fuzz on me, R?” Montparnasse asks. He jumps down from the railing and walks towards Grantaire, his gait swift and almost catlike, then tucks his rose into Grantaire’s front pocket with a smirk. “Or is the missus gonna do the honours?”

Grantaire rolls her eyes at the nickname. Montparnasse gave it to Enjolras a while back when Grantaire refused to tell him Enjolras’ name. A chill pierces her skin as Montparnasse looms close to her, but it’s gone in a moment.

“No, but you need to stop making it hard for me to look after you.” Grantaire says, shoving him half-heartedly as he leans on the wall next to her.

“I don’t need anyone to look after me.” Montparnasse says stubbornly.

“Yeah,” Grantaire says. “I know.”

“You’d better fucking know.” Montparnasse says.

And he really doesn’t need anyone to protect him. He’s handy with a knife and even better with a gun. Grantaire has never told him about any weapons of Aracletria, because she can only imagine what damage Montparnasse could do with a phaser - or worse yet, a sonic blaster.

“I’ll see you soon?” Grantaire asks.

“You’ll see me when you see me,” Montparnasse replies. He pats Grantaire on the shoulder briefly before vanishing into the shadows, off to who-knows-where.

Montparnasse is … Montparnasse, and Grantaire has an interview to get to. The second one in one week, because she is just that lucky.

She wasn’t being a _complete_ tosser when she called Mabeuf a dullard - Mabeuf is a very simple man with very simple pleasures, and not very adept at spotting lies.

The interview goes as easily as she thought it would. Mabeuf takes her word on being misquoted, then listens to and jots down a much more favourable account of the day Grantaire met E. And the fact that he writes for a much more renowned paper than Cosette’s unfortunately sensationalist one means that the stink will be regarded as typical tabloid nonsense and blow over in a few days.

By the time she gets back to her flat, it’s after one in the afternoon and she’s only slightly tired. She just wants to get in her bed, which proves somewhat impossible, given that her flat is completely empty - bed and all.

She’s staring at her empty apartment with wide eyes when she hears someone clear their throat. When she looks up, she sees that it’s her lessor, Floreal.

Ey and Grantaire are something close to friends. The first time she met em, she was drawn to em - to this beautiful Israeli person, with eir pink and blonde dye job, all eir tattoos and piercings, and eir cool smile. Ey’re twice her age and they manage to pull it off. It’s admirable. She called em a MILF once - ey slapped her in the face and told her ey’d never push out any little brats, and if she ever implied that ey were a girl again, ey’d knee her in the guts.

She used to be kind of into em in a vague sort of way, but the flame she carries for Enjolras burns deep in her heart - everything else tends to dim in comparison (what isn’t dark compared to the sun?) - so she never acted on it. And anyway, ey never seemed interested to take it beyond their fun flirtations.

Still, ey looks her up and down shamelessly, pausing at her breasts, before meeting her gaze and saying, “The blondie you’re shagging has gone with all your stuff. Said someone was sick or whatever and you’re leasing the place. It sounded like bullshit, so either she’s a thief or you’re moving in together. If it’s the first, tough shit. If it’s the second, cheers.”

“There’s not - I’m not - We’re.” Grantaire takes one deep breath.  And then another. “I’m not shagging anyone - she’s my friend.”

“So, she’s single, then?” Eir smirk widens “Interesting.”

“Not for you,” Grantaire says, almost too sharply.  She winces a little as she adds, “If the constant noise I hear coming from your apartment has anything to do with it.”

“She’s lovely, but I don’t want her, silly girl.” Eir tone is almost condescending, but Grantaire’s used to that at this point. “I just wanted to know how much you did. And now I do.”

Grantaire gapes at em for a moment before snapping her mouth shut. “I think you’re the wickedest person I know.”

“And you love it.” Ey roll eir eyes and start to walk away, but not before halting and adding, “I’d get on that as soon as possible, if I were you. You look at her like you want to fuck her into a wall, and, love, she looks back.”

Floreal is a smart person. Ey’re a dickhead, but ey’re smart. Grantaire wonders why smart people tend to be so stupid sometimes - which, of course brings her back to her predicament. She has another stupid smart person to deal with right now.

She immediately makes her way out of her window and flies across the city. She’s sure the view would be beautiful if she just took a moment to check it out, but instead, she makes her way straight to Enjolras’ flat - no detours or distractions.

“You get that no one actually _appreciates_ efficiency, right, Enjolras?” Grantaire asks on her way through the open window.  She lands in Enjolras’ living room. “You get that, right?”

“That’s not entirely true, there are several -” she cuts herself off as she twists around on the couch to watch Grantaire.  An odd look comes over her face.

“What?” Grantaire asks, and when Enjolras shakes her head, Grantaire continues.

“I can’t believe you actually moved me out. I wasn’t even gone three hours. What exactly did you tell my lessor?”

“I told em you had to take care of your sick aunt and that you were leasing your flat until you got back.”

“I’m impressed,” Grantaire says. She doesn’t have the heart to let her know that Floreal saw through her lie.

“I do actually know how to speak to humans, you know,” Enjolras huffs with a roll of her eyes.

“No one said that you didn’t,” Grantaire replies. “You’re a regular Doctor Who.”

“I set you up in your room. Your canvases are on the floor and your books are under your bed. Everything else is the way it was before you moved out.” That explained, Enjolras turns back to her book.

“Thank you,” Grantaire says. “Do you want me to make lunch or are we going to order out?”

“We’ll order out,” Enjolras answers, her eyes now trained on the book in her hand. It’s leather bound, the leather is rough and intricately carved.  Grantaire knows if she touched it, it would almost feel like stone - which means that the book is of Aracletria.

She leaves Enjolras to her reading and goes to check out her old room.

Upon entering her room, she’s struck by how much Enjolras wasn’t lying. Her room looks exactly the same as it did before she moved out. It’s almost uncanny, when she thinks about it. She takes a moment to marvel at Enjolras’ impeccable memory before poking around. She never could stand her anything being too clean for too long - it goes against her nature. She looks through her books (unlike Enjolras she reads a mixture of books of Aracletria and books from Earth) and takes out the ones she reads most often for more accessible perusal.

She puts her paints in order and sets up her easel. The reason this room was hers before was because it has the best light, and she claimed it the minute she walked into the flat they were gifted.

She sees her communicator in the corner of the room and sighs. Calling any of her friend-protectors now felt wrong.

Their battles are much more imminent, unlike Grantaire and Enjolras, who actually have time to plan. She shoves the device aside. If they need her, they’ll call - otherwise, she refuses to bother them unnecessarily. For now, her bed is made (which is a feat for her and physical proof that Enjolras set up the room) and her bones are weary.

Grantaire doesn’t realise that Montparnasse’s rose is still in her front pocket until she falls face first onto the bed and a thorn pricks her.

-

The next morning, Grantaire wakes up to find Enjolras sitting on the edge of her bed, holding a mug of coffee. She doesn’t even bother pretending to be startled or acting like an eighteenth-century lady whose modesty has been violated. Enjolras tends to do these things, and Grantaire’s used to it. She knows how to be around Enjolras. They didn’t spend three years in isolation with each other and then three years living together without learning how to exist around each other.

“Well, what’s for breakfast, then?” Grantaire asks, sitting up and letting the covers pool in her lap. She’s wearing a very loose fitting sports bra, but Enjolras has seen her in much more compromising positions, so she can’t be bothered to mind. She takes the mug from Enjolras and inhales.

Cooking may not be Enjolras’ strong suit - and by that, she means that putting Enjolras in the kitchen is the equivalent of intentionally putting gasoline soaked rags in the middle of the kitchen and lighting a match - but damn, can the girl make a good cup of coffee. Enjolras’ eyes travel across Grantaire’s body, and she presses her lips together tightly.

Grantaire doesn’t even bother scoffing. Enjolras has always had a thing about her sleeping half-nude - it offends her puritan values or something like that. Given that Grantaire doesn’t invite Enjolras in her room to see her like this, she’s just going to have to deal with it.

“Pastries,” Enjolras replies, tearing her eyes away from the distasteful lack of clothes on Grantaire’s body. She looks at something on Grantaire’s bedside and shakes her head. “I talked to Combeferre and Courfeyrac last night. They asked after you, and Courfeyrac said, and I’ll quote them here, _Call me, you ass fuck, we have things we need to talk about_.” Enjolras shrugs, but it’s pretty obvious that she’s suppressing a smile.

Grantaire laughs. Courfeyrac has been utterly delighted with Earthen swearing since they first started talking to Grantaire - they find it positively charming. It’s because of Courfeyrac that Grantaire has adopted the habit of combining every possible curse word together, and quite colourfully, too.

“I’ll call them,” Grantaire says, rolling her eyes fondly. “But later.”

“How’s Montparnasse?” Enjolras asks. Grantaire furrows her brows. Enjolras rolls her eyes and points to the rose sitting on Grantaire’s bedside.

“Oh.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Enjolras says, with the same voice she uses when she’s really making an effort to be polite to politicians who insult her.

“He’s fine,” Grantaire answers slowly. She’s always hesitant to share information about Montparnasse with Enjolras. (Enjolras has never said it, but it’s obvious she doesn’t like the man.) “His fashion sense is growing increasingly worse. I’m pretty sure the amount of glitter he wears should be illegal at this point.”

Enjolras nods and stands up. “Come eat, then. We have a lot to discuss.”

She leaves the room, giving Grantaire a chance to flop back down on the bed and groan before forcing herself out of bed and getting dressed.

-

The next few days pass by quickly, which is what generally happens when you’re waiting for impending doom.

Grantaire is suddenly grateful for the few humans who’ve decided that donning capes and saving people is apparently their new calling. Enjolras and Grantaire help out where they can, of course, but most of their time now is spent setting the necessary precautions to protect the Earth’s population and informing the people who need to be informed.

Just like Jehan, Eponine and Feuilly make a broadcast the minute they’ve finished fighting, looking all too worse for wear, and they have some new information.

“We followed Neptune’s lead and used some local armies in our fight. It was a fruitful one,” Feuilly says. Xyr flaming red hair is cut short, and xyr eyes look tired. There is a gash on xyr cheek where blood is drying - a vibrant yellow against xyr black and purple striped skin - and Eponine, sitting next to xem, has bruises all over them that are just starting to bruise.  And that’s just what Grantaire can _see_. “We’ve done everything we can and there are a few less raiders for you all to fight.”

“Their shells are really fucking efficient.” Eponine grumbles, frowning as though lost in their memories. They’re leaning against Feuilly, taking strength from xem. Their eyes almost flutter close before they blink and continue, “Almost like armour, hard to penetrate. Their blasters are just as good.”

“From what we’ve gathered, they’re after a better energy source to fuel their ships, which means they plan to drain the planet of all clean energy,” Feuilly says. Xe looks just as tired as Eponine - as though they’ve both seen hell and came through the other side. And they probably have. “If they succeed, you might live, but you’ll end up with a big husk of nothing to defend.”

“May Marianne grace with you with her strength,” Feuilly sighs before signing off.

-

(This is how the protector system of Aracletria works. Every two centuries, groups of two or three are sent in a ship as infants to the planet they’re supposed to learn and protect for the coming centuries. They’re volunteered by their parents and sent before they can even talk. The ship is supposed to land in front of an orphanage, a hospital, or anywhere where they could be taken care of as babies, and then turn into a random inanimate object of their planet until they’re ready to return to it.

They’re generally adopted when they’re found, because, apparently, children of Aracletria are compelling, or just beautiful in general - _ha!_ Grantaire’s seen one of her baby pictures. She’s not fooled by _that_ particular lie.

Each of the pair has a silver bracelet imprinted on their wrist that they aren’t able to see until they find their partner again. The bracelet itches and heats when they’re near their partner, and becomes visible after the transfer of any bodily fluids - which is messed up in Grantaire’s opinion, because she’s not very certain that there aren’t some protectors who didn’t shag the first time they met - although sweat would be more ideal. Marianne alone knows why Enjolras decided to tongue her the first time they met when she could have probably just shook her hand (the park was stupidly hot that day) but she’s going off course now.

It’s impossible to never find your partner - at least, that’s what Grantaire’s been told. They’re not actually born with knowledge of Aracletria, but when they’re mentally ready, certain, vital information pops into their head, which explains why Grantaire knew nothing about their home planet when Enjolras met her. Grantaire still isn’t mentally ready for this shit.

They can locate their old pod with their amulets, and they tend to spend the next three years locked away in their ship in solitude, learning about Aracletria and what’s expected of and from them. They learn to use technology of Aracletria, talk to other protectors, and discuss their thoughts and ideas of their planets and how they can best protect them.

When they’re old enough and they understand how their home planet _and_ the planet they’ve been sent to observe, they go out to work.

The logic is this: when they’ve found their partner and spent time growing and bonding with them and gaining knowledge of their home planet, they can better perform their duty to protect the planet they now live on.

When they’ve completed their service, they’re free to live as they choose. That’s how it generally works.

That is _not_ how it worked with Enjolras and Grantaire. Something went wrong with them.

Their pod was faulty somehow - Grantaire was thrown from it before it even landed (she always _had_ thought that she was dropped on her head as a child) and landed near a hospital. She’s had exactly two foster families, unlike kids who basically get thrown around the system as though someone’s playing a fucked up game of hot potato, so she probably should be grateful for it. Compared to Enjolras, Grantaire could have well lived like a queen - or, at least, like a handmaiden, or a handmaiden’s handmaiden).

The ship landed in a secluded area, no one ever found it, and Enjolras stayed on it for the duration of her childhood until she decided it was time to go find Grantaire.

When Grantaire made a joke suggesting that Enjolras probably kicked her out of the pod because she was taking up too much room, the blonde looked so hurt that Grantaire instantly felt bad and never mentioned it again.

Enjolras never really talks about her childhood, but Grantaire can very much assume that it was a lonely and unfairly self-sufficient one. She spent her time immersed in all things of Aracletria - it was all she knew growing up.

Her loyalty to the planet is unparalleled.)

-

Apparently, after Javert passed the information on to his boss, his boss passed the information on to _his_ boss, and _his_ boss passed the information on to the lord mayor. The lord mayor, Jean Valjean, is apparently very interested in all of their reports of incoming raiders. Strangely enough, Enjolras is the one who takes meetings with the man instead of Grantaire, updating him whenever new intel comes in.

Grantaire spends her time in the waiting room, chatting up the mayor’s secretary, (Grantaire always forgets her name - she’s named after a flower, she thinks, and she laughs every time Grantaire calls her Red, so she never bothered trying to remember it) while Enjolras is locked up in the mayor’s office and since when does Enjolras know how to interact with human beings?

The only normal thing that’s happened recently is that tabloid reporters have started trailing her again and are apparently very interested in her new lodgings.

Enjolras is, by all means, of Aracletria and _not_ from Earth. She has no identification card, no birth paper, no social security number, no bank or credit or debit card, and no passport. She doesn’t even have a library card. She signs everything with a large E and gets away with it because - well, she’s _E_.

Only the higher up government officials - presidents, kings, queens, senators, governors - know her name. So, the most that the general public will gather is that she is now living with E, which is completely fine with her. If anything, it works in her favour and saves people from believing Cosette’s unsavoury report of their relationship.

Speaking of which, Grantaire is kind of surprised to see her sitting in the waiting room while Enjolras is giving the mayor Eponine and Feuilly’s report.

“Fancy seeing you here,” she says with a wry smile.

“I should say the same,” Grantaire replies, sitting next to her.

“Not really.” She shrugs, tossing a blonde curl behind her. “Your friend is talking to my father.”

“Wait, seriously?” Grantaire asks. “I thought your name was Fauchelevent.”

“It is,” she says, with the air of a person who gets asked this question a lot. “I’m adopted, and Papa wished to let me keep the name of someone who was very dear to us at a certain point, out of respect.” She doesn’t say any more than that and Grantaire doesn’t ask.

“I was just doing my job, you know,” Cosette says after a few minutes of silence. “If you two didn’t keep everything so private, people wouldn’t be so interested.”

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. “Bollocks.”

“Alright,” she laughs, her laughter like pealing bells and shakes her head. “Maybe they _would_ be interested. But not in finding out something mysterious and jaded. They’d be interested in who _you_ are and in your reasons for helping us.”

“I’m less optimistic.” Grantaire says, truthfully. “We’re off record now, right?” Grantaire asks and Cosette nods.

“Of course we are.”

“E is kind of the more useful one when it comes to what we do.” Grantaire shrugs. “I’m just the cynical bastard who helps out where she can.”

Cosette furrows her brow and places her hand on Grantaire’s shoulder as though she needs comforting. She’s opened her mouth to respond when a much more resounding voice interrupts her: “You underestimate yourself far too much.”

Enjolras is standing with the door open and Grantaire has no idea how long she’s been there because the mayor is standing behind her looking at Cosette, his face unreadable as he looks at them.

“Papa!” she says, and her father’s face softens. She jumps up and pecks him on the cheek. “I have news.”

She waves goodbye at Grantaire and follows her father into his office, leaving Enjolras and Grantaire by themselves. Enjolras is gazing at her with an intense expression that makes her pulse quicken - but after a moment, it disappears and Grantaire can breathe again.

“You know her?” Enjolras asks, nodding her head in the direction of the closed door.

“She’s the reporter I talked to last week.” Grantaire stands.

“The one who got you drunk to get faulty information out of you?” Enjolras’ head is tilted to the side, a typical expression when Grantaire does something confusing that she’s trying to understand.

“Oh, God,” Grantaire sighs. She hooks her arm with Enjolras’ as they walk out the front doors and into the street. “Only _you_ would phrase it like that.”

“How would _you_ phrase it then?” Enjolras asks, stopping in the middle of the pavement - apparently, she has no sense of courtesy or basic human decency.

“ _I_ wouldn’t.” Grantaire drags them to the edge of the pavement, hoping to at least keep up the pretence that they’re civilised people.

Grantaire gets where Enjolras is coming from, she really does, but she makes it a point not to hold any grudges. Once, a long time ago, Irma told her, “Christ, you’re ugly as sin” and she’s never held it against her. If she kept grudges against everyone who was _mean to her that one time_ she’d have no friends.

They catch a taxi, because neither of them is in the mood for flying, and they want to go home.

Grantaire waits until they’re in the safety of Enjolras’ flat to ask, “How did the meeting go?”

Enjolras sighs. “Valjean is still adamant about being the go between for us and the senator, which is frustrating.  But he seems to understand, which is good, and he also seems to be interested in giving us the help we need.”

“Well, that’s good, I guess,” Grantaire says.

“How is it good that the government doesn’t trust us? This reminds me of Abelard and Heloise. They had to be so careful not to reveal themselves so they wouldn’t lose their country’s love and get burned at the stake. Their families - and, in turn, their nation’s leaders - were reluctant to take them seriously. In the end, they had to do their work while living a life in the church.”

“I don’t see how - wait, they were protectors?” Grantaire asks.

(Enjolras has always had more access to information about Aracletria - which was something that Grantaire used to be grateful for, but now it just makes her feel strange and oddly inexperienced.)

“Haven’t you read _Protectors of Aracletria_?” Enjolras asks, a confused frown on her face.

Grantaire remembers that book. She got through two pages - but it was awful and tedious, filled with stupid, triumphant stories and wide-eyed tales of victory. She never looked at it again.

She shakes her head, and Enjolras laughs, not quite fondly. She turns around and goes to her room,  leaving Grantaire to wonder if that is the end of the conversation.  Enjolras doesn’t have people skills, but this is more abrupt than usual.

She isn’t left wondering for too long, though, because Enjolras comes out of her room five seconds later with a thick, intricately designed, leather-bound book in her hands.

“Here,” she says, thrusting the book at Grantaire. “Learn about your history. It’s actually very useful.”

-

She brings up the book when Courfeyrac and Combeferre call a week later, only to get chastised by the pair.

“How have you not read that yet?” Courfeyrac looks at her as though she’s grown a second head- and by their expression, a head that’s on fire. “It’s kind of important.”

“Courfeyrac is right,” Combeferre says, raising his head from his own copy. The hologram flickers - it’s been doing that a lot lately, since there’s more than one communicator in the flat. And she’s the only one home. “People who ignore their past are doomed to repeat its mistakes. It’s fascinating reading, besides. It includes things otherwise forgotten by the civilian population of the planets - things that were left out of _their_ history books.”

Their copy looks even more well-read than the one on Grantaire’s bedside. It’s not exactly light reading, but maybe she _should_ give it a try. She never really did, even after Enjolras berated her for it.

When she got it last week, she opened it and read the first two pages of Cleopatra and Anthony of Aracletria and their perfect partnership, and she just closed it. She has no place feeling jealous of people long gone from Earth.

“Exactly.” Courfeyrac nods enthusiastically. “I mean, look at the end of the Martian monarchy - Queens Mara and Marin of Aracletria. They thought the more power they had, the better they could help the people. So they spent most of their time buried in paperwork and dealing with politics. The crimes and the attacks on the planet from outside forces got so bad, the people were incensed enough that they blamed the planet’s misfortune on _them_. They were overthrown within just a few years of their reign and had to fly home one hundred and fifty years early. They’re still married now and they’re happy, I suppose, but protectors had to be sent down sooner than Aracletria was prepared for. It was a mess.”

“That’s why Courfeyrac and I do menial jobs,” Combeferre says, and Courfeyrac nods in agreement. “It’s work we can abandon easily in case we’re needed elsewhere.”

“Knowing the people who came before us helps more than you think,” Courfeyrac adds earnestly. Combeferre looks at them warmly - and Grantaire is beginning to feel like a third wheel, so she says her goodbyes (even though she doubts either of them even noticed) and lets herself fall back down on her bed.

Grantaire doesn’t actually have a job. She does commissions on rare occasions under a pseudonym, and people like doing her - and, to a lesser extent, Enjolras - favours. Either as a thank you or because they think it’ll help them sleep better at night, Grantaire doesn’t know, but she doesn’t really mind accepting them. She’s never once claimed to have any form of moral high ground, if her association with known criminals counts for anything.

Enjolras is the one who has a problem with it. Even now, as they’re living in a fucking penthouse for free because they saved the landlady from a man who was trying to mug her. Enjolras still does odd favours for the woman because she doesn’t think anything should come free.

So, Grantaire’s alone in the flat while Enjolras accompanies their landlady to the doctor this morning. Miss Hucheloup is old enough that the visit is going to take a while, and Grantaire isn’t in the mood for not-so-light reading. The sun is too hot for her to want to do anything other than purposefully take a cold shower.  She turns up the air conditioning in her room and grabs her towel before heading to the shower.

Under the cold stream, she can breathe easier. Enjolras says that Aracletria is colder than Earth’s coldest winter - that they’re made to survive better in the cold. That’s why Grantaire feels so at home when it snows and so irritable and uncomfortable in the summer.

She indulges in her shower. (If there’s one thing about this flat that’s perfect, it’s the shower, with the luxury dual shower heads that caresses her skin like a soothing massage.)When she’s finished, she wraps her towel - a white, fluffy thing - around her and heads to the kitchen. Enjolras isn’t home, which means there’ll be absolutely no disappointed tutting at her desire to drink before midday.

There’s no liquor in the fridge, of course. Enjolras is adamant about not storing alcohol in the flat, which is a damn shame, because Grantaire just doesn’t give a shit. If she wants alcohol in the house, there will be alcohol in the house.

She keeps it in her room, though, because Enjolras is a philistine with no qualms about throwing away a fifty quid bottle of whiskey, and Grantaire just physically cannot. She’s grabbing the orange juice from the fridge with the intention of making a screwdriver when she hears a voice call out.

“Grantaire, where are you? I brought home Chinese. It can be an early lunch.”

She didn’t even hear the door open - so when Enjolras calls out to her, Grantaire, of course, chooses this moment to twist around rapidly, slip, and fall arse over tit in the middle of the kitchen. Luckily, her towel doesn’t slip enough to reveal anything, but her cheeks still burn with embarrassment because, as luck would have it, Enjolras rushes into the kitchen upon hearing the noise and gapes at Grantaire’s ridiculous position.

She’s certain that she looks absolutely pathetic: wet skin and soggy curls, sitting on the floor with orange juice spilt all around her, staring at Enjolras blankly and wondering whatever in the world she’s done to deserve this punishment. She’s already not much of a catch, and that isn’t even counting her personality. Her, with her wild, untameable lion mane hair that mats if she doesn’t comb it out every day, her short stature, her wide hips and the love handles that come with them. And it’s not that she’s self conscious about it - she’s just very self-aware, and there are certain things that will bring down your self esteem. This is one of them.  

She supposes this is the point where she should be happy that she even wore a towel in the first place, but she just doesn’t have the time for that kind of optimism.

“Not a word,” Grantaire groans.  She falls back onto the floor, hitting her head on the tiles with a _thonk_!

Grantaire shuts her eyes and mutters curses under her breath as she holds her towel up completely in place. This isn’t real. This isn’t happening. Obviously, this is just her overactive imagination at play.

“Are you hurt?” Enjolras asks, voice strained - proving to Grantaire that this is, indeed, happening.

Grantaire opens her eyes and stares at the ceiling in silence. The only thing more embarrassing than this would be … Well, she can’t think of anything right now, which should shed light on how dire her circumstances are.

“Not physically,” Grantaire replies, inspecting the ceiling quite thoroughly.  “My pride, on the other hand ...”

(Technically, her pride is non-existent, but Enjolras doesn’t need to know that … Or at least, she doesn’t need to have that fact confirmed.)

When she sits up, Enjolras is rolling her eyes.  She looks flushed - not with arousal, Grantaire could never be so lucky - and there’s a vaguely discomfited expression on her face.

“Well, clean up, then. You’ll attract ants." And with that, Enjolras strides out of the kitchen.

Grantaire sighs before getting up and grabbing the mop in the corner.

One day, hopefully in the near future, she will stop embarrassing herself in front of Enjolras.

Enjolras is sitting in front of the telly when Grantaire walks in, fully dressed this time. It’s off because Enjolras is a weird alien who doesn’t like television. She’s watching her carton of food pensively, (and this isn’t even the weirdest thing Grantaire’s seen Enjolras do) and when Grantaire sits next to her, she jumps as though she was stuck in some sort of trance. Her face is closed off - Grantaire wants to ask her how she manages such a carefully blank expression, it seems like a useful skill to learn, but it feels like a stupid question to ask, so she refrains. Instead, she asks after the landlady, and Enjolras’ face softens as she starts talking.

Grantaire picks up her carton of sweet-and-sour pork and noodles and commences stuffing her face as Enjolras goes on. It’s one of the few normal moments they’ve had since this began, and Grantaire doesn’t want to ruin it.

-

Later that night, after signing off the communicator with Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta, who were nervous and jittery, Grantaire decides to pop in to the nearest bar. Enjolras locked herself up in her room after their early lunch, and Grantaire can see the glow coming from under the door - meaning she’s on the communicator, probably checking in on Feuilly or Jehan or talking to Combeferre and Courfeyrac - and Grantaire wants to get laid.

She leaves the penthouse quietly and walks the short distance to a regrettably high-end, but remarkably close pub. She’s not one for dressing up - she put on the capri pants that Montparnasse always insults her for wearing, a black camisole, and her combat boots. Nothing too fancy, but luckily, their dress code isn’t that bad.

When she enters techno music plays through speakers and people are dressed as though they’re at a club (which fits, because this place with the professional DJ, the strobe lights flashing everywhere and girls in short, tight-fitting, sequined clothes, resembles a nightclub much more than it does a pub) and dancing to the music. Grantaire considers walking right back out - in fact, if it wasn’t for the enticing primo booze sitting on the top shelf of the actual bar, she would have. But soon enough, shitty music and false advertisements aren’t going to matter anymore, so Grantaire just sits by the bar and signals a bartender.

The bartender stutters when he sees her, then takes a moment to compose himself before smiling and offering Grantaire her first round of alcohol on the house. Grantaire smiles her acceptance.

She hasn’t even had her first sip of whiskey when she hears a familiar voice.

“You seem to be popping up everywhere these days,” Cosette says, sitting next to Grantaire in the bar and tossing a brown curl over her shoulder. She’s probably the most fashionable person in the room, in black shorts, wedged, knee-high boots and a yellow, bow front top with a black bolero shrug. She fits in with this particular crowd perfectly.

“I could say the same.” Grantaire nods her acknowledgement pleasantly. “Are you stalking me, Miss Fauchelevent?”

“Wouldn’t you just love that?” Cosette stifles a laugh. “Don’t worry, R. I’m just here with my feyfriend. I solemnly swear I’m up to no journalism.”

Cosette, true to her word, pays for two beers when the bartender sets them down on the bar in front of her and pats Grantaire on the shoulder before leaving.

She’s on her own at a pub, the night is young, there are new friends to be made, and she’s only on her first glass. Maybe she didn’t plan for the whole club scene, but the night looks promising.

That is, of course, until she hears the unmistakable click of a gun’s safety turning off.

 _Fucking hoity toity pubs with no metal detectors and bullshit security_ , Grantaire thinks. She hasn’t even started drinking properly, but duty calls.

(She’s sick of saying duty calls. Duty needs to stop fucking calling. She’s not home.)

She stands reluctantly and weaves her way through the crowd. Those who are unaware are still dancing, those who aren’t are rushing out of the pub. Voices are raising, and by the time she gets to a small pocket in the corner of the room, there are two men: one pointing his gun at a girl and one holding the same girl’s hands tightly behind her back. Grantaire sees the quiver in the girl’s lip, but she looks the man in front of her in the face without flinching. Upon further inspection, she notices that her shirt is slightly torn and her knuckles bruised. She has no time to spend getting angry at the implications of the scene - the two men notice her and try to make a break for it.

They’re fast, but Grantaire is faster.

She catches the man with the gun and hauls him in by the shirt. Grantaire may be on the shorter side, but she _will_ grab you by the shirt and fling you into a glass bar without even breaking a sweat.

The gun slides out of the man’s grip and is kicked through the crowd as more people try to get away.

The man is groaning on the floor, his friend running away. Grantaire really wishes people would stop trying to run away - when will they get that she’s fucking faster? Like, this is a thing that people should know by now. Grantaire is about to sprint in the direction of the other man when a girl with periwinkle hair, wearing a tight fitting, light blue and white suit and mask slams the man in his chest and sends him sprawling across the floor.

Grantaire raises her brow and stares at her, but the girl pays no attention - she’s too busy looking at the man as he tries to get up. The blue-haired girl grabs him by the scruff of his of his shirt and hovers with him in the air. She whispers something in his ear, and the man shudders noticeably. Grantaire doesn’t bother trying to help her - looks like she doesn’t need it, since she lets him go, the guy falls on the floor into a slump and it gives Grantaire just enough time to get back to the first guy, who’s trying to crawl his way through the glass. Grantaire sighs. Resilience is actually just annoying sometimes. She kicks the man in his stomach.  He buckles and falls back down to the floor.

Grantaire drags the man away from the glass to the edge of the bar (because she isn’t actually trying to _kill_ him) and takes a breath for the first time since this entire fight began. She’s bracing herself for another fight when she notices the noise: the people left in the pub are applauding.  Grantaire can hear sirens approaching, which means that she can go home and enjoy being chewed out by Enjolras for being so reckless and not calling her. The man on the floor twitches, and Grantaire rolls her eyes. She’s just about to drag him into a sitting position when the girl - or, The Blue Nightingale, as the crowd seems to be calling her - walks up to her holding the man, who has to be twice her size, and rests him at Grantaire’s feet.

“Thanks for the hand,” the girl says. She holds out her hand to shake, and Grantaire almost takes it before inspecting her more closely. A wig and a mask that only cover your eyes are fucking pointless in the long run, she’s always said that - and she _knows_ that face. She knows that voice. She knows that smile.

“Well,” Grantaire says, speaking up in an attempt to be heard over the continuing applause. “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you, Cosette?”

\-                                                                                                                             

“Where are you from?” Enjolras asks, eyes narrowed.

“London,” Cosette says.  She looks at Enjolras face on - not many people can do that without flinching, Grantaire included. Grantaire decides that she likes Cosette. She’s taken off her mask, but the rest of her costume remains on. Her hair - not a wig, apparently - is tied up in a loose bun with only a few blue locks falling in her face.

Cosette had decided to come back home with Grantaire when Grantaire’s flurry of questions just wouldn’t stop. She said it would be easier to do this sitting down. They dropped off Cosette’s feyfriend, a shy young person called Marie, before heading back to the penthouse.

Unfortunately, neither of the accounted for Enjolras or the police scanner she keeps in her bedroom. So now, Cosette and Grantaire are sitting on Enjolras’ settee, Enjolras facing them from the armchair opposite like worried parent waiting for her child to come home - and if that doesn’t just make the butterflies in Grantaire’s stomach kick up a fuss like the fucking drama queens they are.

Enjolras’ jaw twitches - and, yup, those butterflies need to be exterminated. Soon. “I mean, which _planet_?”

“Earth,” Cosette replies.  Grantaire barks a short laugh - she _really_ likes her. Cosette nods at her, seemingly appreciative of someone recognising her very dry wit, but her shoulders are tense and Grantaire can sense some of her bravado fading.

Enjolras makes a frustrated noise, and Grantaire decides to intervene. “Unclench, Enjolras. She doesn’t know. Not really. She just knows that she has these powers -”

“Abilities,” Enjolras corrects grudgingly.

“ _Abilities_ , and she uses them to help when and wherever she can,” Grantaire explains.

“Does your father know?” Enjolras asks, and Enjolras seems to really respect this Valjean guy - which makes sense, since he’s all philanthropic and cares about what his constituents have to say and all that nonsense - but it doesn’t make Grantaire any less jealous of the man who's easily gained Enjolras' respect in such a short time.

“He does,” Cosette admits. “He knows more than he’s ever told _me_.”

And, of course, Enjolras seems placated by that.  It’s strange, because if Grantaire was in that situation - actually, hell, Grantaire _was_ in that situation, and she would have throttled Enjolras until her teeth chattered together if Enjolras didn’t tell her absolutely everything she knew about her background at the time. Cosette clearly has much more patience than she does.

“What do you mean?” Enjolras asks more calmly, apparently now convinced that Cosette isn’t some hostile alien with some sort of long-term plan of destroying the earth by doing good.  Honestly, Enjolras’ logic will continue to boggle the shit out of Grantaire.

“When I was old enough that I came into my powers -”

“Abilities,” Enjolras corrects.

Grantaire rolls her eyes, “Why the fuck are you so obsessed with that word?”

“Powers imply that she - just like we are - is special or unique. That she’s one of the few people in the world with such abilities. She isn’t, and we aren’t. Her planet is filled with people just like her, same as ours is. People who can do the same things that she can do.” After a pause, Enjolras adds thoughtfully, “Of course, there’s nothing’s wrong with wanting to be a singular being, but it’s good to remind yourself that you’re not alone.”

Cosette nods as though she understands what Enjolras means, and Grantaire just examines Enjolras closely.

She would seem calm and casual to someone who doesn’t know her the way Grantaire does, but Grantaire _does_ know her and she notices the way her shoulders are tensed and she’s infinitesimally stiffer than usual.

That statement obviously let them both know more about Enjolras than she wanted them to. Grantaire just can’t figure out what that knowledge she seems to have accidentally obtained is.

Anytime Enjolras talks about Aracletria, Grantaire feels out of place.  Enjolras always looks at her as though she expects her to nod along or add something of substance to the conversation, but Grantaire always comes up blank.

It’s hard for her to feel patriotic about a planet she’s never even seen (a planet she’s sometimes not even sure really exists) but Enjolras makes her want to.

She thinks sometimes, maybe, if she understood why Enjolras loves the place so much, she could begin to understand the woman herself - but most times, that just seems like an impossibility.

When she tunes back in, Cosette is saying, “- and I just was terrified. Then, my Papa saw me hovering while I brushed my teeth - I was a short little git as a teenager, you wouldn’t believe how grateful I was for my growth spurt - and he had tears in his eyes. I was scared, but he rushed to hug me and he explained that what was happening to me was natural. That my mother was just like me. He never said any more than that, but he helped me when I tried controlling my pow-abilities, and turns a blind eye when I go out to help people.”

“What a nutjob,” Grantaire says, because someone has to say it. Cosette and Enjolras both send her glares in return for her effort.

“He was trying to protect me,” Cosette says fiercely. “He still is. I won’t have you -”

“Hey, I’m just saying.” Grantaire raises her hands in a gesture of assurance. “But I’ve been wrong before.”

“You often are, come to think of it,” Enjolras says drolly, and Grantaire makes a face at her.

“What has your father told you of the … most recent threat, then?” Grantaire asks.

“Nothing much,” Cosette shrugs flippantly, but her eyes look troubled. “He just says I may need to do my work more, since you two are going to be busy.”

“We can’t - we can’t tell you everything,” Enjolras says. She looks frustrated - she hates this necessity for secrecy.

“Not until we have clearance from your father. He’s still the mayor, and if the higher up government officials doesn’t want this to be public knowledge yet? We rely on their … reluctant acceptance of our work so that we can continue _doing_ said work, and-”

“I understand,” Cosette says calmly.

“I’m glad that you do,” Enjolras replies earnestly.

Cosette smiles at her, and Enjolras doesn’t quite smile back - but her lips quirk upwards as she gives Cosette the bare bones. Enjolras tells her the names of their planet, a few basics about the Minettia and that they’re expecting an upcoming battle but she leaves out most of the details, like their friend-protectors and anything that could get Cosette in trouble. Her father may be the mayor, but there are things that _even_ _he_ isn’t supposed to know.

“So am I … Aracletrian?” Cosette asks after a while, wrinkling her brow.

“Of Arcletria,” Enjolras says stiffly. “Not Aracletrian. And we don’t know that yet.”

“Okay.  And the Minettian -”

“Minettia.” Enjolras breathes out, exasperated. “Why are you humans so intent on putting an n after nationalities?”

“Apparently I’m not even human, though,” Cosette says wryly, and Grantaire _really_ likes her.

“We can’t tell you anything other than that,” Enjolras says.

“Yes, well, I’m a lone wolf when it comes to this,” Cosette says.  She stands up and brushes her suit off. “But if ever you need me, I’m free to help.”

Cosette leaves right after, claiming that she needs to be home before he father worries too much. Her declaration still rings loudly in their ears.

They’ve really only ever worked alone. Together, but alone.

After that, Grantaire stretched out on the couch with an arm flung over her eyes, blocking out the dim light of the lounge room. She can feel Enjolras’ still presence, which is odd- Enjolras is rarely _still_. If she is, she’s either angry or she wants to talk about something, and Grantaire knows that she doesn’t need to prod to get her to talk. She just needs to wait.

“Are you okay?” Enjolras asks finally. Grantaire looks up - Enjolras’ voice is softer than usual.

She’s biting her lips in consternation, and she looks strangely stricken.  This is rare and makes no sense to Grantaire, so she simply replies in the affirmative without any of her typical gentle teasing.

“I didn’t get to ask you before. Cosette was here, and -” Enjolras starts and Grantaire waits for her to continue. Enjolras never talks tentatively or trips over her words. “We never really seem to end up in fights without the other. The only time that happened it was - I was ... worried.”

“Don’t be,” Grantaire frowns. “I’m fine, I promise.”

Enjolras smiles dimly. She stands up and strides over to Grantaire, then places her hand on Grantaire shoulder and squeezes hesitantly before saying, “I’m glad.”

Grantaire nods, confused. It’s not that Enjolras has never been worried for her like this - with the way they live they spend most of their time worried about the other - but it’s always a distant worry. An _I know you’re okay but let me still check in on you_ sort of thing. Outside of the damn Monaco incident, they’ve never not been successful, so their concern for each other is always second place. It’s never _this_.

She’s confused when Enjolras lingers silently by her shoulder. She’s confused when Enjolras goes into her room soon after without saying a word. She’s confused when she brushes her teeth. She’s confused when she tosses and turns in bed - and she’s confused when she drifts off into slumber.

-

The next morning dawns upon Enjolras sitting at the edge of Grantaire’s bed, that usual sharp look on her face, so Grantaire just chalks up Enjolras’ weirdness the night before to being caught off guard by the discovery of Cosette’s abilities.

Grantaire sighs.  “What can I do you for?”

“You can make breakfast,” Enjolras says.  And with that, she stands and strides out of the room.

Well, then.  Rude.

Grantaire trudges after Enjolras slowly, because she woke up for this, goddammit, and she’s not happy about it.

Enjolras follows her into the kitchen and hops on the counter to watch, as is her habit. Funny, how as often as she watches Grantaire cook, she never actually tries to help.

Honestly speaking, though, Enjolras is a shit cook, so Grantaire prefers to be the one doing most of the cooking.

Grantaire once asked Enjolras about it when they were living in the ship - since Enjolras had lived on her own for half of her life, it makes very little sense that she didn’t know how to feed herself. Enjolras explained that she was very good at sneaking into diners at night when everyone was overworked, tired, and easily distracted, and taking what she needed.

“I paid for everything when I came by money, of course,” she’d said.

Morning passes by easily: they eat Grantaire’s toast, bacon and eggs without any fuss and spend the rest of the morning in their separate rooms.

It’s about midday when everything goes sour. Grantaire blames the heat - it’s enough to drive anyone mad. That, and the fact that they’ve been living together for over a month now without any disturbances.  It’s almost inevitable that tensions would have risen eventually.

The fight is stupid, nowhere near as awful as some of their previous fights. Grantaire doesn’t throw her mug of scalding tea, much as she wants to, and Enjolras clenches her fist, but refrains from punching anything. Some would call that progress. It’s almost tame, considering the grand scheme of things, but Grantaire knows that she quite possibly went too far.

You see, the fight was stupid, Grantaire isn’t denying that - but that doesn’t mean that there weren’t statements thrown around that cut deep. Enjolras and Grantaire have always been good at finding the one thing that could make the other hurt as badly as humanly (or, more accurately, _inhumanly_ ) possible.

With everything flying around, Grantaire managed to tell Enjolras that she doesn’t need her, that she’d be better off without her.

Obvious lies that Enjolras somehow believes, given the way her face shatters as she storms away. It’s true that Enjolras has told her worse - but this time, _she’s_ the prick. She’s like that sometimes.

It’s not that Grantaire doesn’t understand that Enjolras is a person with feelings. But with all the glaring and yelling and judgement, the way Enjolras looks at her with such disdain, Grantaire can’t help but think that that Enjolras hates her and ... she forgets.

Enjolras is the only one with the ability to push her past the point of self-loathing, to the point where every emotion swirls inside her like a ticking time bomb. It’s how Grantaire's been since knowing Enjolras -  Enjolras manages to pull out that combination of anger and defensiveness in her, and she can’t help those moments when she feels the need to carry herself like a grenade, ready to explode at the slightest disturbance. It’s always devastating in its aftermath - all that anger, because it fades. It always fades. That’s the problem - it’s the problem because after all that smoke clears up and the dust settles, she becomes hyper-aware of the damage that spilled from her mouth - the wake of destruction she leaves behind. All that fury that builds up in her mind like the most volatile bomb collapses, and she’s left with nothing but ash in her mouth - nothing but regret.

But Grantaire is trying to be better at dealing with her feelings, so instead of ignoring the slamming of the door and stewing some more, Grantaire follows Enjolras out to the roof to survey the damage and maybe try to clear up some of the wreckage.

As usual, Enjolras is sitting on the edge of the roof, her feet dangling off the side of the building. Her gaze is cast sideways, focusing on at something on the street. The sun hits her profile and her hair almost glows. Grantaire stutters to a halt a few feet away from her.

“Enjolras.”  Grantaire’s voice is strained.

Enjolras turns and looks at her inscrutably. Grantaire doesn’t know what to say. Feeling awful about one of their arguments is even easier with Enjolras so stoically silent. Silence suits Enjolras as well as it suits Grantaire - which is to say, not very. It throws her, makes her unsteady on her feet.

“I’m … I’m sorry,” Grantaire says weakly. Those words aren’t enough, she knows they aren't. Enjolras turns back to whatever it was that she was looking at far below.

Grantaire sits next to Enjolras, close enough that their shoulders brush together, and looks at her.

“Enjolras,” she tries again helplessly.

Enjolras still doesn’t respond. There’s an unsurprising dearth of warmth surrounding her. She doesn’t even look at Grantaire - just shakes her head.

“Okay, then.” Grantaire nods. She looks down, curious as to what’s holding Enjolras’ interest instead of her. It’s an old man juggling oranges, his hat on the pavement. He’s not doing a very good job - more than one orange has fallen from him. Grantaire would go down and help him, but he’s doing a pretty decent job of picking them up and starting over again. That’s certainly more than Grantaire can say for herself.

“Okay, so you’re giving me the silent treatment - which, I understand, I’d give me the silent treatment too if I didn’t like talking so much. It’s just. I say stupid things, okay? I say stupid things that I don’t mean when I’m upset, and it’s shitty of me.  I lash out, and you take the brunt of it a lot, but that goes both ways a lot of the time, truth be told. You’ve said pretty awful stuff to me before, too, and - okay, no, this is an apology. I’m apologising. So. Um. Just. Are you even listening to me?”

Enjolras glares at her sharply before turning away again and, well, eye contact is something, right?

Grantaire continues, “Well, think of someone born without something to hold them upright. Like, this incomplete person with formless ideas and baseless opinions. This person without a brace. And then one day, out of the blue, a completely new person walks up to them and becomes a part of their life and holds them up. Makes them better. Makes them stand taller.That’s you. You’re my brace. Do you understand what I’m saying? This is a really shitty metaphor, and I feel like I should be apologising for that, too, but - of course I care about you, Enjolras. I do. Of course I do. Of course I need you. I wouldn’t know what to do without you. I lo - you’re everything to me, okay? Everything.”

Enjolras doesn’t reply, but she leans closer to Grantaire and doesn’t glower or freeze up when Grantaire wraps an arm around her. They sit there for a while, Grantaire trying not to think too hard about everything she just revealed and Enjolras trying to absorb what she just heard.

Enjolras rests her head on Grantaire’s shoulder and just breathes.

“I know I’m ... difficult. I know I’m frustrating to be around, but you can’t - you can’t say those things to me, because I’ll believe you and I need to not believe you. It hurts and - I need you,” Enjolras admits quietly after a while.  Grantaire does her best to keep her breathing even. “You’re all I have.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Enjolras’ hair tickles her neck as she presses against her, but Grantaire’s arm is around her shoulders and Enjolras’ head is resting in the crook of her neck and Grantaire could stay like this forever.

-

Grantaire visits her mum the next day. Flying to Derby is nothing - in fact, speeding through the sky makes her calmer, the wind beating around her and the rancid air assaulting her lungs.

She and Enjolras tend to need some space from each other after a fight. Enjolras, though she forgave her, barely nodded when Grantaire mentioned going out for the day.

The minute her mother sees her through the window, she tuts sharply and opens the door to let Grantaire inside.

“What’s the problem, Amina?” her mother asks, Grantaire already strewn across the sofa. “Your father’s going to be home in a few hours, and you know how he feels about seeing you around.”

“Nice to see you, too, Evelyn.” Grantaire rolls her eyes.

Her mum's expression softens. "Alright, go on, then."

Grantaire has a slightly rocky relationship with her parents, which really wasn’t aided by her rebellious teenage years. Her parents had an idea of what they wanted when they adopted her - and she wasn’t it.  Their relationship hadn’t always been a cold one from what Grantaire remembers, but her mood swings put a huge strain on them. There were moments when she feared they’d kick her out and never talk to her again.

She decided to leave before that could happen when she was seventeen.

They didn’t talk to her for years after she left - and then, she was sort-of in the motions of repairing her relationship with them when she and Enjolras were found out.

The entire superhero business was the last straw for them. Her dad doesn’t even talk to her anymore.

Her mum thinks she and Enjolras are completely insane, but she still cares about Grantaire in her own way, and she’s ridiculously fond of Enjolras. She likes them to come around when Grantaire’s dad isn’t home.

“Me and E had a fight.”

“Isn’t that just the way you two work?” her mother asks, not unkindly.

“Will you just let me talk?” Grantaire snaps.

Her mother raises her hands in compliance, and Grantaire explains what happened - conveniently leaving out any mention of her almost-love declaration. By the time she’s finished, her mother is contemplating her with a strange expression.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Grantaire asks when the silence has gone on for too long.

“No reason,” her mum says, patting her denim-clad thigh before standing up. “Sometimes, I forget how mad you two are for each other.”

“Well, you’ve got that half right,” Grantaire grumbles to herself.  She follows her mother to the kitchen.

There isn’t really much to say after that. She didn’t go to her mother for advice - she just wanted to vent to someone, and her mum’s pretty good at listening when she’s not being a nasty bint about everything.

She spends the rest of the morning following her mum about the house as she tidies, listening to her rant about everything and nothing at the same time (no surprise where Grantaire got that habit from) until it’s almost time for her mum to do her Zuhr salat. She leaves before her mum starts her prayers - she really isn’t in the mood to bump into her father - but her mum loads her up with biscuits and pastries and even kisses her on her cheek before sending her off.

“Tell E to come with you next time, yeah? I miss seeing her face about.”

“Sure,” Grantaire replies with a shake of her head.

She flies a bit more leisurely on her way back to London, not in any sort of rush. She takes the time to tease some children playing in the street by zooming around them, then flies off to the sound of their laughter.

-

By the time she reaches home, it’s after one and she’s a little winded.

Enjolras is nowhere to be seen, but there’s an untouched box of pizza in the living room. Grantaire leaves all of her mum’s baking in the kitchen, then helps herself to a few slices. It’s only when she’s eaten a second slice from on the settee, telly on to Channel 4 with Friends reruns playing in the background, that Enjolras comes padding out of her room in her pyjamas.

She’s a little disconcerted as she blinks at Grantaire, but Grantaire chalks that up to tiredness - the girl looks like she just woke up.

“Thanks for the pizza,” Grantaire says after a moment of silence. “It’s my favourite.”

“Right. Yeah.” Enjolras clears her throat. “I wasn’t sure if you were coming home so I ordered.”

“Yeah well, Evelyn sent a bunch of shit she baked. I put it in the kitchen if you’re up for dessert.”

Enjolras just nods before sitting next to Grantaire. She doesn’t eat anything or seem interested in what Grantaire’s watching, but her silent presence is enough to make Grantaire feel at ease.

Enjolras is actually choosing to be around her without being forced. They’re going to be fine.

-

Bahorel calls that evening. He’s bruised up, part of his head is shaved, and there’s a noticeable scar from his scalp to his nose, but he’s grinning. Jehan stands behind his chair hovering around, not saying anything, a grim look on zher face. Jehan twists one of Bahorel’s platinum blonde dreadlocks between zher fingers as Bahorel talks.

“It was child’s play, really,” Bahorel says. Grantaire doubts that, but she lets the man go on. “Just don’t let them cut you with their pincers, man - there’s venom in them or something. Messed me up bad. Definitely worth it killing the bastards, though.”

“You took on more than you were able to, and you were out for weeks,” Jehan chides through gritted teeth. Grantaire feels for zher. She glances at Enjolras, sitting next to her on the sofa with fierce determination on her face - and if she were in the same boat and it was Enjolras unconscious for so long, she would be a mess. Grantaire has no idea how Enjolras dealt with that when it was her.

Grantaire’s been breathing easier since they made up, but they’ve still been tip-toeing around each other, and Grantaire wonders if they’ll ever be able to reach a place where they aren’t always at each other’s throats.

“It wasn’t all bad,” Bahorel’s face softens. “Plus, you woke me right up, didn’t you?”

“How?” Enjolras asks.

Bahorel sends Enjolras lewd smirk. Enjolras raises her hands and shuts her eyes. “I actually don’t want to know. Don’t bother. It’s fine.”

Both Bahorel and Grantaire burst out laughing, and Jehan’s cheeks go tomato-coloured. Enjolras glares until their laughs subside. Bahorel should’ve known better than to make any kind of sexual allusion around Enjolras. Although, if sex was what woke him up, Enjolras and Grantaire will be in a pickle if they get bloody.

“How many of them did you both kill?” Enjolras asks, wearing her mental note-taking expression.

“Bahorel got about eight of them. That’s why he got wiped out like that,” Jehan says, shoving zher life-mate lightly.

“And you?” Enjolras asks promptly.

“None,” Jehan spits out, frustrated.

“Jehan, what the hell? So you left more for us to fight. How is-”

“Enjolras, quit it.” Grantaire nudges her side and glances apologetically at Jehan and Bahorel - well, mostly Jehan, because Bahorel looks uninterested by the disagreement. “Did you at least send the ones you got back in the shuttle?”

“Of course I did,” Jehan says, indignant. “I wasn’t born a light year ago.”

Grantaire nods in acceptance while Enjolras scowls. Enjolras has always been frustrated by some of their friend-protectors lack of desire to kill hostiles. Non-violence pisses her off, Grantaire doesn’t get why. You kill as many as you can and you send the rest in a shuttle back to Aracletria to be imprisoned. That’s the normal procedure, anyway. Nothing’s wrong with following it.

“Read up on the protector system and you’ll know everything you need to know,” Jehan adds. “Everything’s in there. You just need to see it. I wish I saw it sooner.”

Bahorel sobers up and looks up at Jehan. “You saved me. Sooner or later, you saw it and you woke me up. You did it. You.”

Jehan clasps his shoulders and kisses him on the top of the head, lingering there for a while before pulling away. Zher cheeks are pink when zhe raises zher head looks at them face on.

“Focus on all the details in the books,” Jehan says, zher voice growing more severe. “The slightest thing can help or hinder. You _need_ to read the books again and look into different techniques. Focus on the medical books especially okay? Try not to miss anything, everything is important.”

“We have to make the rounds,” Bahorel says, uncharacteristically serious. “Let everyone else know what we know.”

“Marianne help you both,” Jehan says quietly before signing off.

The living room is quiet as they both think. Grantaire’s used to constantly being worried, but what makes this suck the most is how long they have to wait - it keeps building up tension, making her more nervous than she needs to be.

It’s just a fight.

A fight with a team of aliens who evenly match her and Enjolras to the point that they could be hurt or even killed, given the way things have been happening so far. But that’s nothing. They can handle it.

She’s jolted out of her thoughts when she feels eyes on her. She turns to Enjolras, who’s gazing at her pensively.

“Yeah?” Grantaire asks.

“You probably shouldn’t drink in any sort of excessive way for the next few months,” Enjolras says, “You need all your faculties for this.”

“I’m not a bloody idiot,” Grantaire replies, glaring daggers.

“Really?” Enjolras asks. “Because the Monaco incident-”

“Oh fuck you and fuck fucking Monaco,” Grantaire growls. She’s sick of Enjolras bringing that up, especially when she’s tried so hard not to fuck up that badly again.

“Don’t snap at me,” Enjolras hisses. Her ice blue eyes flash dangerously, but Grantaire isn’t in the mood to care.

“I’ll do what I want.”

“And that’s always the problem isn’t it?” Enjolras looks at Grantaire fiercely - her lips curl in a sneer, and Grantaire fights the part of her that wants to shrink into her seat and instead looks at Enjolras head on.

Enjolras just shakes her head, then gets up and heads to her room, slamming the door behind her. She’s most likely going to take Jehan and Bahorel’s advice and do some heavy reading, no doubt whilst cursing whoever thought it was a good idea to make Grantaire her partner.

Unlike Enjolras, Grantaire understands the necessity for leisure. She takes a bag of chips and a glass of the wine in her room (because fuck Enjolras) and follows suit.

-

Monaco was a disaster from start to finish, and it was mostly Grantaire’s fault. She says _mostly_ because it’s not like she actually _invited_ the three rogue Minettia raiders to her planet and asked them to start terrorising humans in their search for fuel. No, she didn’t do that - all she did was get knocked the fuck out and leave Enjolras to finish the battle on her own. So, okay, maybe it was more than mostly her fault.

It was almost a good fight. She and Enjolras really did think they had it for a moment.

The National Guard had already seen to getting people out of the town as fast as they could, so they weren’t worried about casualties. All they had to do was kick the raiders’ asses to a next galaxy. And they would have done it, too - if it weren’t for Grantaire.

Truthfully, it was the first fight that ever really scared her. She’d gone completely on the piss the night before, not knowing that this is what she was going to have to deal with when she woke up, and everything was happening so fast, she was so overwhelmed and so hungover, she didn’t even know when it happened until it did.

She was thrown against a building with a force strong enough to break through the wall and send her through some glass and into an office.

She’d never been in that amount of pain before. Her head was spinning and everything seemed like it was happening from a distance. Every bone in her body screamed in pain, and blood started to pool around her. The last thing she heard before she blacked out was a piercing scream.

When she woke up, everything had changed.

Enjolras was at her bedside in the hospital, as shirty as Grantaire had even seen her. She informed Grantaire in clipped tones that one of the Minettia raiders got away, and oh, the entire world knew about their powers. (She always got pissed when one of their enemies got away, but the incoming scrutiny was a whole new level of problem.) Grantaire had to deal with reporters and photographers and government officials from her bed, and Enjolras just spent the entire time staring at her. It would have unnerved Grantaire, but she was too busy freaking out.

She didn’t plan for that happening - for people finding out about them. She’d read the comics, she knew what happened to superheroes that were found out. Luckily for them, the Monacans weren’t too keen on non-human experiments.

Grantaire healed ridiculously fast because of what she was, but that didn’t seem to please Enjolras. The girl spent the entire time she was in the hospital looking at Grantaire, her expression unreadable and her frown seemingly permanent.

-

Montparnasse is sitting at the edge of her bed when she wakes up, the stem of a rose between his teeth. She knows that he broke in, because Enjolras would never let Montparnasse in unless she absolutely had to.

Seeing the dark-haired man wearing all black and sitting on the edge of her bed is somewhat jarring. Grantaire almost thought it was Enjolras for a minute. They both have the same slender figure, high cheekbones, and strong jaw, and Montparnasse is feminine enough that he could pass at a glance.

Grantaire blinks furiously and tries to gather her thoughts but all she comes out with is, “Whuzzah.”

She glances to the side blearily. The window is open, not broken. A draft blows in that makes Grantaire shiver slightly, even under the covers. It wakes her up a little bit more. She’s rarely ever cold, so it must mean bad weather.

“Good morning to you, too,” Montparnasse says smoothly. He tucks a perfectly groomed, inky curl behind his ear with a hand covered with a black, sequined glove.

“The fuck?” Grantaire groans, her voice still raspy with sleep, rolling to her side. She props herself up with her arm and looks at Montparnasse seriously. “The fucking fuck?”

“Have you always been this eloquent or is this a new thing?” Montparnasse asks conversationally.

Grantaire takes a deep breath and clears her throat. “Do you want to tell me why you’re here?”

“Why?” Montparnasse asks, amused. “You think the missus will get jealous.”

“No,” Grantaire says, ignoring Montparnasse’s ridiculous nickname for Enjolras, because, _seriously_. “I think she’ll kill you, though. And if she doesn’t, _I’ll_ kill you, since I’ll have to end up listening to yet another lecture on how consorting with criminals makes us look.”

“You think her problem with me is that I’m a criminal?” he seems even more amused, and Grantaire is too tired for this shit.

“What else would it be?” Grantaire asks, humouring him.

“You’re really fucking stupid,” is all he says.  Well, Grantaire can accept that.

“Why are you even here, Montparnasse?” Grantaire asks again.

“You know me - I have eyes and ears everywhere. A little birdie flew my way and gave me a lovely bit of information that I think you’d love to know.” Montparnasse looks at her expectantly, twisting the rose between his fingers. “For a price, of course.”

Grantaire sighs. She knows that look. She gets out of bed cursing the day bartering was invented and finds the jeans she threw on the floor the night before, then takes all the money out of the pockets and thrusts it in Montparnasse’s hands.

Montparnasse takes his time counting the money, ignoring the way Grantaire taps her feet impatiently. Apparently, he deems the amount given sufficient, because he starts talking.

“I have a friend. You don’t need to know his name or the position he holds in an organisation that will remain nameless.” Grantaire sighs and closes her eyes - Montparnasse and his deliberate vagueness tends to get on her nerves. She considers asking Marianne for the ability to tune people out without feeling like an asshole about it, but that would just be a waste of her time. And anyway, it would have been detrimental, given Montparnasse’s next words: “But he’s high up enough to know Enjolras’ name.”

Grantaire’s eyes snap open at that.

“Thought so.” Montparnasse smirks smugly.

Grantaire’s hands curls into balls. “Just say what you have to say.”

“Whatever attack is happening soon, you’ll be getting no help from the government or their armies.”

“England isn’t the only country on Earth,” Grantaire says, trying to sort through her thoughts. “We’ll just contact America, or Iran, or China, or -”

“You don’t get it, do you, you naïve infant?” Montparnasse sighs. He looks almost sorry for her. “No country is going to help you. They all _want_ you to die in this fight, and they want to blame the deaths and damages that come from it on you so you’ll lose the people’s love. I’m afraid you two had a nice run, but it’s nearing to a close.”

“Are you taking the piss?” Grantaire asks, because she has to.

The pity written across Montparnasse’s face tells her all she needs to know.

Grantaire takes deep breaths through her anger. All of their planning, all of their plotting relies on armies. More than one army. They didn’t think about contingencies such as this - and that, in retrospect, makes Grantaire want to laugh. She should have seen this coming from a mile away.

“Thank you, ‘Parnasse,” Grantaire says through gritted teeth. Montparnasse presses a gloved hand to Grantaire’s shoulder. He tucks the rose he was holding behind her ear and presses a soft kiss to her cheek.

Montparnasse doesn’t stick around any longer after administering his peculiar brand of comfort medicine. He leaves the way he entered - through the window - and Grantaire barely notices. She’s too busy trying to resist the urge to drown this with a glass of whiskey, and instead plan five new strategies in her head.

It’s only after a few minutes of standing in her room, alone with her racing thoughts, that she notices something: how angry she feels. It’s because she cares, and she doesn’t know how that happened.

When she was young, a beautiful, blonde girl told her she was from another planet sent here to protect the earth, and all she could do was laugh. It was hilarious. She didn’t even think the world _could_ be saved. Now, she isn’t letting it be destroyed without a fight.

She needs a drink - no. No, what she needs is to talk to Enjolras about this.

She walks outside into the living room and finds Enjolras curled up on the sofa, reading a leather-bound book.

“Why didn’t you wake me?” Grantaire asks. Their lives are in danger, but this is what her mind has chosen to zero in on. She is ridiculous and pathetic. She’s so _fucking_ ridiculous and so _fucking_ pathetic.

“You had company,” Enjolras says with a frown. Her eyes flick towards Grantaire’s hair and then back to her book. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“Oh.” Yeah, Grantaire and Montparnasse weren’t exactly making an effort to whisper.

“Did you want breakfast?” Enjolras asks. “I haven’t made any. I thought you would when you woke up.”

And, _right_ \- Enjolras doesn’t know yet.

“We need to talk.”

-

“How do you know any of this is legit?” Enjolras asks, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. It’s unnerving - of all the looks Enjolras has aimed at her over the years, suspicious has never been one of them. It makes her heart twinge in her chest, but she doesn’t have the time to be hurt right now.

“I _know_ ,” Grantaire says. “Montparnasse may be many things, but he won’t lie to me. Not about something like this.”

The rose that was tucked into her curls is now lying discarded on the coffee table in front of them. Grantaire pulled it out in frustration halfway through relaying the news. She focuses her eyes on the red petals while Enjolras stays silent.

“Well, this changes everything then.” Enjolras says, finally, shaking her head in disbelief. And for once, Grantaire doesn’t tell her she’s being dramatic. In the grand scheme of things, she’s one hundred percent right.

They’re superheroes, honest-to-God superheroes. It’s their destiny, or whatever. At least, that’s what Enjolras keeps saying.

As far as Grantaire is concerned, there is no such thing as _destiny_ \- there’s only choice. For instance, the forefathers of their home planet _chose_ to make it a defence base. Their government _chose_ to send children to a different planet to grow up and assimilate. Enjolras and Grantaire _chose_ to follow the instructions given to them and dedicate their lives to protecting the Earth when they could have turned away at any point. It’s all choices.

Choice is a funny thing, though.

Grantaire didn’t choose for Enjolras to accost her one day, out of the blue, with this information in the first place - not when she’d been previously living an almost normal life. She didn’t choose to fall in love with the girl because of it (or in spite of it, she doesn’t really know.) She didn’t choose the fame that comes with what she does, and she didn’t choose the mistrust from the government that came with it as well. Her choice wasn’t considered when Minettia raiders decided to kill their way through the solar system and threaten their very existence.

She didn’t choose any of this, but other people’s choices caused this to be her life. And at the end of the day, she has to fight to keep living it. She has to keep _living_.

As unpredictable as Grantaire is, she’s spent so much of her life protecting the Earth, she doesn’t want to give up now. This isn’t a movie - she hasn’t spent the majority of her character arc longing for a normal life. She just tends to go with shit the way it comes. _It is what it is,_ she always says _._ And what it is for her and Enjolras is: they have a job to do and they need to keep doing it. Fuck love of Patria, fuck loyalty, fuck destiny, fuck all of it. This is the only thing she knows how to do, and damn anyone who tells her she can’t do it.

“What do we do?” Grantaire asks.

Enjolras stands and sets her eyes on Grantaire, “We use our resources.”

-

Okay, so, Grantaire technically has no idea to which resources Enjolras is referring, but she disappears to her room the minute she says it. That leaves Grantaire in the lounge room on her own which, okay, it’s not like they have _a world to save_ or anything.

She doesn’t leave Grantaire worrying long, though - she comes out of her room seconds later.

“Alright then, we’re going to go see the mayor,” Enjolras says.

Pause. “What?”

Grantaire knew they had no fucking resources.

“We’re going to see the mayor,” Enjolras repeats, as though the problem was that Grantaire didn’t hear her the first time.

“Did you not hear me earlier?” Grantaire asks slowly, because she really doesn’t want to have to shake some sense into Enjolras - it’s a waste of both of their times. Enjolras knows how to be sensible. “He’s not going to help us.”

“Yes, he is,” Enjolras says, in a tone that doesn’t allow questions. “He’ll look out for his own.”

-

Cosette sits on a large sofa looking like a porcelain doll. If Grantaire didn’t know who she was, she’d probably be almost fooled. As it is, though, she’s looking at her father avidly, a serious expression on her face.

Enjolras and the mayor are whispering softly together in the corner of the study. Grantaire is torn between irritation and resent.

She stands with her arms folded and looks at the two with a frown, wishing they’d just say whatever it is they need to say already - the suspense is making her want to slap someone. And that someone might just end up being Enjolras if she doesn’t look out.

Okay, so, _maybe_ Grantaire’s also very pissed off at Enjolras for keeping this a secret from her. It’s not as though Grantaire doesn’t want to know more about the protectors that came before them. Well, maybe it looks that way sometimes, but history books are written from the perspective of the winner. She wants to know more, she just doesn’t want to read the sugar-coated versions, the versions wrapped with a pretty red bow on top. Talking to Valjean would have been a help to her, but Enjolras kept him all to herself for some untold reason, and now they’re whispering in the corner like schoolgirls gossiping about their first crushes.  It’s annoying.

“So,” Grantaire says loudly, jolting everyone out of their bearings. “Can we address the class now?”

Cosette looks like she wants to reproach Grantaire for being so rude, but she also looks like she wants to find out what they’re talking about, too, so she keeps silent. Enjolras doesn’t.

“We’re talking, Grantaire,” she says with an annoyed frown. “We’ll get to you soon.”

Grantaire doesn’t know what her face is doing, but Valjean looks at her with a curious expression before smiling gently. “Let’s get to them now.”

Enjolras sighs, frustrated, but nods her acquiescence. “Of course,” she says calmly.

She walks over to where Grantaire’s standing and leans against the wall next to her, their shoulders brushing together.

“This has to do with you, too, Cosette, so listen up, okay?” Jean Valjean instructs gently. Cosette blinks up at him innocently with her doe eyes. She looks like Vigée Lebrun’s portrait ‘The Bather’, in person. Grantaire has a feeling that the mayor looks at Cosette through rose tinted glasses much in the way that she does with Enjolras, albeit with different intentions, and that Cosette is absolutely fine with it.

“Of course, Papa.”  She smiles at him.

Valjean turns to face them, and his face grim.

“I’m not a protector, but I am of Aracletria,” he begins.  Grantaire really isn’t sure where the guy’s going with this, but Enjolras is watching the mayor intently and Cosette looks just as interested, so she just sighs and relaxes against the wall.

“Then, why are you here?” Grantaire asks, raising her brow.

“I -” Valjean falters. He glances at Cosette swiftly before turning to Grantaire. “You have to understand something about protector planets: they’re stricter than most other planets. Any infraction - there’s very little mercy. My family was a big one, and we were not very rich. We had a farm, but it didn’t do too well. My brothers and I were weak and starving, and tilling the soil was like lifting the earth over our heads, and -”

Valjean’s voice breaks off with a wounded noise. He takes a deep breath, recovering. Grantaire eyes find Enjolras’ first, the way they always do - she looks pained, and for once, Grantaire instantly knows why.

She’s idealised Aracletria for so long, Grantaire knows it hurts her to listen to all of this, even if she’s heard it before. Grantaire can’t look at her for too long. Instead, she turns her face back to Cosette as Valjean continues. Cosette is silent and her head is bowed, so Grantaire can’t see her face - can’t see if this story is distressing her or not. That’s much easier for Grantaire to watch.

Valjean continues, “I stole some solar-plasma capsules from a drug store. I needed the strength the pills would provide, and I was desperate. I was caught, of course. The level of security on Aracletria ... Those who aren’t sent to be protectors when they’re young opt to be security guards, police officers, detectives, investigators. It’s hard to get away with any sort of crime. I was stupid, and when I pleaded guilty, I was sentenced two hundred and fifty years in prison.”

“And you got out?” Cosette asks with a small voice.

“I’d still have ninety three years left if I didn’t break out.” Jean Valjean replies, quietly.

“It was a crueller punishment that you’d imagine.” Valjean continues. “People from our planet find our mates within the first fifty years of our lives. That was my true punishment - I was never able to find the person I was meant to spend my life with.”

Enjolras clears her throat. “I understand why you need to tell this part of the story, but we should probably get to the point.”

“There’s _another_ point?” Grantaire asks.

“There is only one point,” Valjean says firmly. “I’m not the only person of Aracletria that lives on this planet.”

Grantaire blinks. “Come again?”

“Protectors don’t always leave the planet they were sent to when their work is done,” Valjean explains. “It makes sense, I suppose. They’re asked to dedicate their formative years to a planet, and then when their time is up, they have to leave? It’s not a perfect system.”

“I still think it’s ridiculous,” Enjolras says, a furrow in her brow. “What protector doesn’t want to go home at some point?”

 _Well,_ Grantaire thinks, _one of them is sitting right here_.

“But the ones here can be useful to us, I suppose,” Enjolras admits.

“Even living in squalor far below the poverty line, I was glad that my parents never thought to send me off to be a protector,” Valjean says. “You can’t be a protector forever.”

“The books are very clear,” Enjolras says firmly. “Once a protector, always a protector.”

“In name, yes,” Valjean argues gently. “But in practice, you go home and you have to find a different niche. Protector planets are very proud of their status as just that, and yours is the biggest in the guardian galaxy. I know what the books say, so I know you may have read differently, but it’s actually overwhelmingly difficult to get anywhere near the law enforcement service. When a protector goes back to their home planet, they’re given a house to live in and a salary for all the years they’ve worked on the planets they were sent to, but not much else. Our lifespan is vast, and money is easy to run out of.”

“What exactly are you saying?” Enjolras’ jaw is set.  Grantaire grips her elbow slightly - Enjolras’ actually relaxes slightly under her hold, so Grantaire turns to Valjean.

“Maybe you _should_ explain exactly what it is that you are saying.”

“I’m not saying anything,” Valjean replies, voice still as calm as ever. “I’m simply stating how things are.”

“And what does any of that even mean?” Enjolras asks, her voice growing cold.

“It means that nothing is perfect, Enjolras,” Valjean says sharply. “And your home planet is no exception to that rule.”

“ _Our_ home planet, you mean,” Enjolras says more than she asks. “Aracletria is as much your home as it is ours.” She moves closer to Grantaire.

Both she and Cosette are looking at this exchange warily, albeit focused on different people - Grantaire’s never seen Cosette look this timorous. She almost wants to step in and just end the heated discussion, but the mayor’s shoulders slump and Grantaire has a feeling that it’s already ended for him.

“I have a different home now, Enjolras.” Valjean says, his voice softening. “I have a different life here. I have a daughter, I have a few friends, I have a job where I can help people until I have to go underground again. It’s different than what I thought it would be, but it’s my life. And _this_ is my home.”

Grantaire’s never seen Enjolras speechless before - but there’s a first time for everything, and apparently that time is now.

“And what about me?” asks Cosette, speaking up for the first time. “How are things for me?”

“Your mother was a protector,” Valjean says, wringing his hands together as he does so. “She loved you very much, and she tried to make this world as safe as possible for you to live in.”

Cosette smiles at that, but Grantaire’s a little more fixated on the person looking at the mayor with apprehensive eyes - she’s never seen this look on Enjolras before. She barely even notices Valjean as he continues talking,

“She was sent to Earth with a woman who wasn’t very compatible with her. She met some _thing_ who also wasn’t very compatible with her, and they made you.”

“So, I’m half of what you all are?” Cosette asks. Her eyes are trained on her father and she stares him down with verve. “What does that even mean?”

“If means you have a similar lifespan to us and some of our abilities.”

“And my mum?”

The mayor’s face pales, and Grantaire finally understands that this moment might have nothing to do with them. She tightens her on grip Enjolras’ elbow and steers her out of the room, leading her into the foyer, far away from Valjean and Cosette.

She doubts the two even notice their exit.

Away from other people’s view, Enjolras’ furious visage melts into a stricken one. She wraps her arms around herself.

“I’ve been blind, haven’t I?” she says, almost in a whisper, wide eyes all-too-clearly revealing her doubt. Grantaire takes a step towards her, unsure of what to do - doubt is an ugly look on Enjolras, and Grantaire doesn’t like it one bit.

“We know what we’ve read and that’s all,” Grantaire tries to assure her, wearing the suit of faith about as well as Enjolras wears the suit of scepticism. “Valjean’s idea of Aracletria is about as biased as our books and journals. We can’t really judge until we know more can we?”

“No, we can’t,” Enjolras says, shedding the uncertainty under her skin as easily as a snake. Enjolras been like this for as long as Grantaire’s known her - unable to let her vulnerability show for too long before she’s standing as steady as the mountains again.

“But it’s our job to protect the weak and defend the innocent,” Enjolras continues. “Maybe we can’t do that at home just yet, but we can start here. We’ll win this fight. I promise.”

Grantaire smiles a little. And this Enjolras, an Enjolras ready to take on the world, is an Enjolras who’ll win and then some. Grantaire tend to think of Enjolras as fire and burning heat so often, she’s gotten lost in the metaphor - but truly, Enjolras is a storm. She can rain down on you, wild and beautiful and devastating, destroy you and make you love her at the same time. It’s what she’s done to Grantaire, and she loves her for it.

“I believe you.” _I believe in you._

Enjolras smiles weakly.

“Are you okay?” Grantaire looks at Enjolras questioningly.

Enjolras glances at her furtively for a moment before looking away, her lips pursed. Today has been a day of surprises, but this? Grantaire at least knows this.

“Come here, then.” Grantaire opens her arms and beckons to Enjolras.

Enjolras hesitates for a moment, not willing to make the first move - it’s only when Grantaire moves towards her that she steps into her welcoming arms. Enjolras lets her arms hang at her side, but she tucks her head in the crook of Grantaire’s neck. Grantaire’s arms tighten around her. They stand there for a while, gently rocking from side to side.

Grantaire knows Enjolras well. They’ve known each other for over ten years, it would be impossible for her not to, but this is the one thing Grantaire knows about Enjolras best: Enjolras feels uncomfortable wanting affection.

Grantaire actually does know when things are her fault, and this one is.  When Grantaire and Enjolras had first met each other, back when Grantaire was more of an asshole, Enjolras was ridiculously clingy. Grantaire both loved and hated it. It made her come to the realisation of certain feelings she’d been trying to repress since she was a child. She made the mistake of teasing Enjolras about it once in an effort to take her mind off of it, and ever since, Enjolras has rarely touched Grantaire first, unless she felt that the need called for it.

Grantaire can usually tell when Enjolras is touch starved enough to need Grantaire, and it’s the least she can do to indulge her.

Enjolras usually withdraws first, like now, but Grantaire lets her hands fall to Enjolras’ waist and holds her there.

“Wait,” she says. “I need to ask. Why didn’t you tell me about Valjean? Don’t you -”

“You two can - I’m interrupting, aren’t I?” Valjean says, startling them both.

“No.” Enjolras steps out of Grantaire’s hold, and Grantaire suddenly feels bereft. “You’re not.”

“Before you leave, I just want to offer you my services.”

“So, you’ll fight with us, then?” Grantaire asks. Because that’s the crux of the matter, isn’t it? That’s the point of this entire visit.

“No,” says Valjean. “I am not, nor have I ever been, a protector. I will help you though.”

He hands Enjolras a piece of paper with writing on it. “This is a list - names, numbers and addresses of past protectors I’ve come into contact with.”

Enjolras pockets the list with a nod. Grantaire doesn’t think that this will be enough to help, but it’s a start, and that’s what they really need.

-

There are only three names on the list, which is kind of disappointing - but two of them are people she actually knows which, well, with everything that’s happened today, she really should have seen that one coming.

Enjolras being Enjolras, she decides that she wants to see a former protector before they get a very late lunch. So, straight after leaving Valjean’s place, they head back to Grantaire’s former apartment building to visit an old friend of hers.

Floreal smiles a wicked smile when ey opens eir door, and Grantaire doesn’t even bother pretending to be shocked or upset.

“Well fuck you, first of all.” Grantaire says.  Ey chuckles, even as Enjolras elbows Grantaire in the side.

“Are you two coming in or what?” ey asks, rolling eir eyes. Ey open the door wider, giving her and Enjolras room to walk in. Enjolras nods briskly and steps inside, Grantaire following behind her.

Grantaire’s only ever been in Floreal’s flat a few times when they were day drinking over at eirs, but nothing about it seems to have changed much. Floreal’s attention to colour theory is reprehensible - honestly, being inside eir flat is a trip sometimes.  It’s still as messy as ever, but that only makes Grantaire feel comfortable and at home.

Grantaire walks in further, only to halt when she notices Floreal and Enjolras doing some sort of weird mating ritual by the door: they’re gripping each other’s forearms in a strange mockery of a handshake and dipping their heads while curtsying at each other. Grantaire wants to say she’s seen weirder things, but she’s not really in the mood for lying to herself at the moment.

She clears her throat, then asks, “Um, what the fuck?”

“Maybe you should do some more reading, love,” Floreal says. Ey and Enjolras step away from each other.

Enjolras comes up behind her and nods at Floreal before turning to Grantaire and explaining, “It’s a handshake you give to someone you’ve just met. It’s a form of respect.”

“Right, then,” Grantaire says, because at least that makes some weird and insane sort of sense.

"What did you two birds want, then?" Floreal asks, eir tone as bellicose as always. "The mayor didn't tell us much."  

Enjolras looks at her head on, “We want you to help us.”

“Right to the point, I see.” Floreal raises her eyebrows. “Well, if you’re so desperate, perhaps you tell me exactly what you need my help _with_.”

Enjolras is about to retort when they hear a loud rattling coming from inside Floreal’s bedroom. When Grantaire catches of dark skin and green, tightly coiled hair emerging from the room, she doesn’t even bother pretending to be surprised.

“So, those were _your_ dulcet tones I kept hearing from next door?” is all she says. Irma smiles beatifically before sitting next to Floreal.  

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Irma says, basically dismissing Grantaire before she examines Enjolras closely. “What do you need our help with?”

Irma’s name wasn’t even on the list, which makes Grantaire wonder if there are more than just the three people of Aracletria Valjean listed still here.

Enjolras takes a breath - Grantaire thinks it’s probably her hand on Enjolras’ shoulder, squeezing down, that’s stopping her from flying off her seat and shaking the two people sitting opposite them until the smirk is erased from Floreal’ face, and Irma’s look of vague disinterest fades.

“You know of the threat then, I suppose,” Enjolras says brusquely - and this is why Grantaire can’t let Enjolras do things on her own.

“What Enjolras means to say,” Grantaire interrupts Enjolras before she gets them both kicked out on their arses, “is that maybe you should tell us what it is that you do know, so that we can fill in the blanks.”

Enjolras crosses her arms and leans back against the settee - which is a shock in itself, but Grantaire doesn’t have time to pat herself on the back. Floreal starts to talk, and Grantaire has to groan internally instead, because of how limited their data is.

“Is everyone else as poorly informed as you two?” Grantaire asks, fighting to keep the exasperation out of her voice.

Irma glares at her, but Floreal simply shrugs. “Pretty much.”

Enjolras, who has been silent for a while, speaks up. “Okay, this isn’t going to work.  In the next two weeks, when will either of you be free?”

\-                                             

The moment they reach home, Grantaire retires to her room while Enjolras focuses on planning a meet up.

Maybe everyone is right, and she needs to know more about her home planet if she wants to survive this. She picks up a leather bound book and starts reading. It’s still a bit boring and more idealistic than Grantaire likes in a book, but she continues.

It’s important. Everyone keeps telling her it’s important. Well, sorted. She’ll deal with it.

It isn’t until she’s halfway through the second chapter - Anthony and Cleopatra's story - that something starts to itch at her, part of what bothered her the first time she read.

She doesn’t even notice when she falls asleep, her head pressed against the book.

-

When she wakes up, Enjolras isn’t in her room the next morning, which throws her slightly. She looks out her window to find the sky still dark - okay, so the lack of an angry, blonde alarm clock is more understandable.Enjolras is something of a morning person, but she’d much rather keep pretending that sunrise is a myth.

Grantaire stifles a yawn.  She doesn’t understand why she’s been feeling off her game so much recently. She slept restlessly, but she puts that on the fact that she didn’t drink herself to sleep the way she usually does.

She’s fine - she’s just overreacting because of the stress of everything she’s been dealing with for the past two weeks. At least, that’s what she tells herself.

It’s almost four in the morning, but that doesn’t stop her from picking up her phone from the side of the bed and making a call.

“Do you want to meet me out for a coffee?”

-

“Normally, when someone invites me out, they get there before me,” Cosette says with a wry smile.

She’s sitting on a bench in the middle of the park. She hasn’t bothered to put on her wig, so her hair’s fluorescent, and she looks like she just threw on whatever was nearest to her, sunglasses on even though the sun’s barely out yet. It’s nothing like the fashionably dressed, carefully-put-together person Grantaire’s used to.

Grantaire sits next to her and hands the thermos of coffee she prepared from home. Cosette twists off the lid and pours herself a mug. She drains first that mug, then another before taking off her sunglasses and looking at Grantaire. There are circles under her eyes, and Grantaire feels bad for waking her up this early. If she were a decent person, she would send Cosette back home and let her sleep off what must have been a long night, what with everything she found out from her father. But Grantaire’s never really claimed decency as a primary personality trait of hers, though, has she?

She quirks her lips upwards. “I’m a bit of a tosser, aren’t I?”

“I’ve never once complained about that before. Why would I start now?” Cosette says. She runs her hand through her hair. “Tell me what’s bothering you, Grantaire.”

“If I say nothing, will you feel like I’ve wasted your time?” Grantaire asks.

“No,” Cosette replies calmly, looking at Grantaire with concerned eyes. “I’d feel like you’re lying. And then, I’d ask you why you feel the need to.”

“You’re a perceptive thing, aren’t you?”

“I have my moments.” Cosette shrugs. “Now, get on with it. I can’t help you unless you tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong.” Grantaire says, then continues before Cosette can protest. “That’s the problem - nothing’s wrong. There’s no real reason for me to feel like this, but for some reason I do, and it’s fucking irritating.”

“Feel like what?”

“Like I’m missing out on something. Like it’s staring me in the face, and I just have to be smart enough to figure it out, but I can’t. So, I feel like a bloody moron.”

Cosette nudges Grantaire’s shoulder with hers. “I haven’t known you for that long, but you’re anything but a moron, Grantaire.”

 _Well, at least there’s one person in the world with that opinion_ , Grantaire thinks.

Some time passes with no response from Grantaire, so Cosette says, "Feelings aren't always rational. That doesn’t make them any less valid.”

Grantaire snorts. “Did you pick that out of a fortune cookie?”

“No,” Cosette replies, airily, “Just life.”

“How are _you,_ then?” Grantaire asks.

“Mmnn.” Cosette’s focuses on her knees.

“After last night. Are you okay? No one leaves their house to come to the park to chat at four in the morning if they’re okay,” Grantaire says. “Unless they’ve gone mad, of course. I could be wrong, but you don’t look like a mad person to me.”

Cosette turns to her and frowns before looking away again. “I’m fine. It was just a lot to take in.”

“Oh.” Grantaire breathes quietly. “That, I understand.”

They sit together in not-quite-awkward silence for a while. Cosette excuses herself when the sun starts to peek out from behind the clouds. It takes Grantaire a moment for her eyes to adjust to its yellow light as it casts a dim glow across the previously grey sky.

-

Upon returning home, Grantaire notices a luminescent light coming from under Enjolras’ door. She hears the faint sound of Courfeyrac’s voice and stifles a smile as she heads to the kitchen.

She remembers there was a point when she was jealous of the bond Enjolras had with her friend-protectors, especially Courfeyrac and Combeferre, but she gets it now. At least, she thinks she does. Nothing’s wrong with needing people.

-

It takes two days before Grantaire even looks at the book again. And in those days, all they’ve done is plan. Enjolras is good at planning - much better than Grantaire could ever dream to be. Grantaire just tends to find the entire thing tedious. She’s much more of an action person. There was a reason she wasn’t very good in school.

All this sitting around and practically doing nothing is so frustrating. She keeps bouncing up and down, jittering. She just wants to do something - anything. All the technicalities are killing her, and reading this insipid book isn’t helping.  Sure, she was interested in mythology when she was younger, but finding out that half of her childhood heroes weren’t even human is giving her a bit of a headache.

And they’re all very big names to live up to. She doesn’t know if she can do it.

She spent all of yesterday brainstorming with Floreal and Enjolras and she has never felt more out of her depth. Despite their conflicting personalities, Floreal and Enjolras work well together. It’s a little disconcerting how easily they built up a rapport - it took Grantaire more than a year before she and Enjolras were that comfortable around each other. And it doesn’t help that Irma keeps teasing her about her obvious infatuation with Enjolras which is just … great. It’s great.

The thing is, that she knows the way she moons over the woman is obvious as hell, but she doesn't like attention being drawn to it. She already feels like enough of an asshole about it - she’s the only person Enjolras really has on this planet. As rocky as their partnership is and as insecure as she gets sometimes, she knows she’s the only physical constant in Enjolras’ life. She doesn’t need to muck that up with whatever emotions she may or may not have.

Enjolras has never said anything, which either means that she doesn't know, or that she does and is trying to be nice about it by not rejecting Grantaire outright. If that's the case, Grantaire really appreciates it.

And then, there's this fucking awful book. She hates the sense of inadequacy that comes from reading these things. She's not Enjolras - Enjolras has had resources from their home planet since she was a kid, and she knows so many things that Grantaire’s still scrambling to understand. And Grantaire's not jealous of that. She isn't. She knows the price that came with that. But all the catching up she has to do, compared to Enjolras, it feels - _she_ feels inadequate. And she doesn't need to put that on Enjolras. It's not her fault. If anything, she's as much a victim of circumstance as Grantaire is but -

Grantaire sighs. She's been trying not to whine about it like an infant, but sometimes, in the privacy of her own thoughts, she just can't help it.

Her eyes fall upon a section of the book, spread out in front of her, and she contains a sigh.

It actually helps that she's never even heard about most of these people before, but something begins to dawn on her as she continues reading. Antony and Cleopatra, Mara and Marin, Heloise and Abelard, Combeferre and Courfeyrac, Irma and Floreal, Jehan and Bahorel, Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta, Feuilly and Eponine’s new and tentative thing, Valjean never getting to be in a relationship. It’s supposed to mean something, right? That’s what everyone’s been telling her so far - all of this is important.

Obviously, it doesn’t mean that they’re supposed to be the perfect team, but the stilted awkwardness that sometimes fills the air when they’re around each other? That’s not the way it’s supposed to be, either. At least, she doesn’t think so. They’re supposed to fit each other better than this - and if this is Grantaire’s fault, with her stupid infatuation, she wants to fix it.

She shuts the book and takes a deep breath, the marches out of her room and into the longue.  Enjolras is there sitting with a book in her hand - an Earth book, for once. She smiles up at Grantaire like the sun after a rainy day, and the clouds in Grantaire’s head begin to clear - some things starts to makes sense, and some things don’t.

“You?” Grantaire stumbles. She isn’t sure what she wants to say. What she needs to say. This could all just be coincidence; it’s possible that it’s just a twist of fate. She could be wrong about everything - she usually is. But she could be right. And that’s worth the risk isn’t it?

“Are you okay?” Enjolras asks hesitantly.

“I think I am. Yes,” Grantaire replies.

“... Okay.” Enjolras is watching her with a baffled expression on her face.

“Wait, no, I’m not okay.” Grantaire shakes her head, resolutely ignoring how naked she feels. She’s a crab without the protection of a shell. “Are we supposed to ... what are we supposed to be to each other? Besides friend-protectors, of course. What are we supposed to be to each other?”

“Why are you asking me this?”

Enjolras’ voice is cold - but Grantaire’s used to that, so she just repeats her question.

Enjolras ducks her head, hair falling in her face and shoulders slumping as she puts the book she was reading (The Art of War, Grantaire can now see, that’s fitting) on the coffee table.

When she looks at Grantaire again, her expression is open and slightly sad in a way that Grantaire’s not used to. The earth shifts below her leaving her unsteady on her feet.

“I don’t understand,” Enjolras says, perplexed. “Are you _trying_ to hurt me right now?”

“N-no.” Grantaire is genuinely confused for the first time since she started this conversation. “I don’t understand, Enjolras. Why on earth would I be trying to hurt you?”

“You’re supposed to be in love with me, but you’re not.” Enjolras says. Her voice regains its usual coolness. “I can live with that, it’s fine. But I don’t understand why you have to rub it in my face. It’s cruel, and, frankly, it’s beneath you.”

Grantaire sucks in a sharp breath. Enjolras is still talking, but Grantaire can only hear white noise. The wall Grantaire was building up collapses in her head, and she fights to see through the rubble. She’s _supposed_ to love Enjolras. Everything she’s tried to suppress and make go away is - it’s the way she’s meant to feel.

She’s meant to love Enjolras the way she does. Except -

“I’m sorry. Wait, can we just go back?” Grantaire says, and she tries her damnedest not to tug her hair in frustration because she couldn’t have been getting this so wrong. “What are you - what?”

“I’m not discussing it with you, so just leave it.” Enjolras says.  Grantaire chooses to ignore her snappy tone.

“Tough shit, then!” Grantaire exclaims. “You can’t just go on and say things like that and then just expect me to let it go!”

Grantaire glares at Enjolras, and Enjolras glares right back at her. She tightens her knuckles into fists to hide her shaky hands.

“Does that … go both ways?” Grantaire asks, carefully. “I mean, does that mean that you’re supposed to be in love with me?”

“Yes,” Enjolras says through clenched teeth. “And I am. I respect the autonomy involved in you not loving me back, of course. Just because you’re supposed to feel something doesn’t mean you _have_ to. But I’d prefer it if we didn’t discuss it.”

“But I _do_ love you back,” Grantaire says faintly. She knows her words sound hollow, but there’s bile crawling its way up her throat and she feels as though she’s trying to fight her way out of an inferno before her skin bursts into flames leaving nothing but ashes and confusion in its wake. She’s processing. Or, at least, she’s trying to, and she’s not doing all too good a job of it.

Enjolras scoffs in response and - okay. Grantaire is thinking - well, she’s trying to think, and she sort of understands why Enjolras is doubtful - but Enjolras is supposed to be smarter than this. How could s _he_ have been getting this so wrong?

Before she has a chance to think any more, Grantaire moves into action, practically crawling into Enjolras’ lap. She ignores her trembling hands and holds on to Enjolras - Enjolras tenses below her, and she’d pull away if she didn’t absolutely _need_ Enjolras to believe her.

“Of course I love you, Enjolras. Who else could I love? Who else is worth loving but you?” she says desperately.

She’s clinging to Enjolras now - nothing sexy or romantic about it. She’s clinging, like a drowning woman who’s just found a piece of dry land.

All she can think is - she could lose Enjolras because of this. After everything they’ve been through, this could be the thing that drives them apart, and that can’t happen. It just can’t.

“You - no, you don’t.” Enjolras shakes her head violently and refuses to look at Grantaire, which is impressive, given their position. “You’re attracted to me - trust me, I’ve noticed. But that’s not - I can’t be just that to you. I won’t.”

Grantaire’s stomach turns, and she feels like throwing up. How could Enjolras even think that that’s all Grantaire thought of her, when she loves this stupid, brilliant woman like a physical ache?

“You don’t know how I feel, Enjolras.” Grantaire pulls away, releasing her hold slightly. She makes to get off her, suddenly very aware of their proximity - but Enjolras’ hands grip her waist and hold her in place.

“How do you feel, then? Tell me.” Enjolras commands, finally looking her plain in the eye. “ _Tell me_.”

Grantaire pauses and considers her position - she’s pretty much in Enjolras’ lap, confessing her love for the woman. Confessing her love for Enjolras, who loves her back, and that’s just - nothing about this scenario ever seemed in the realm of plausible before tonight, and she just wants to laugh. But she fights it, because she doesn’t want to break this moment that could very well be a dream - so she takes a deep breath.

“I don’t just _fancy_ you, it’s more than that.  So much more. I love you,” Grantaire repeats, as resolutely as she can manage with Enjolras’ icy blue eyes piercing through her. “I’m in love with you. I’ve never been in love with anyone but you. I can’t imagine how that’d be possible.”

“I love you,” Grantaire says. And then again, for emphasis. And then another time, just to hear it wash over her tongue. It feels like release.

Enjolras reaches out to cup Grantaire’s cheek with her hand, and Grantaire leans into the touch.

“I love you, too,” Enjolras whispers, “I’m in love with you, too.”

“Are you?” Grantaire asks, because, damn it, she needs to be sure. She’s putting herself out on the line and it’s difficult as fuck - she _needs_ to be sure.

“I am.” Enjolras says and there’s no pomp about it. No spectacle. She says it plainly - that’s why Grantaire believes her.  

“I believe you,” Grantaire says, but she doesn’t quite know if she believes her own words.

“I’m glad,” replies Enjolras. “Because it’s true. I wouldn’t lie to you about this.”

“I wouldn’t either. Jesus. You’re everything to me, Enjolras. I don’t know how you didn’t know that.” Grantaire sniffs. And she’s not crying - it’s just her damn allergies acting up, is all.

“Well, it’s not like you said anything.”

Grantaire snorts. As if that was something she needed to say. Her throat is wet and her tongue is heavy with unspoken words. The moment is too fragile for her to break it with a stupid, self-deprecating quip - she’s very good at breaking things, but this is too much for her to risk. She can’t let this fall apart. So they sit there, their arms wrapped tightly around each other, Grantaire’s face tucked in the curve of Enjolras’ neck.

“You were supposed to be my … my mate, weren’t you?” Grantaire asks a little later, stumbling over the unfamiliar term. She untangles herself from Enjolras and pulls away slightly so that she can see her face. Enjolras’ eyes are tracked with tears, and Grantaire traces the dry stains with her finger.

Enjolras kisses her thumb when Grantaire’s done, then looks at Grantaire, uncertain.

Grantaire just smiles and nudges her lightly.

“You haven’t answered my question, you know.”

“There are no predestined mates.” Enjolras rolls her eyes, a look on her face that Grantaire’s beginning to realise as fond. “It’s just … compatibility. They send you with the person most compatible with your DNA so you won’t miss out on your chance. There’s not much to it.”

“Did I miss out on mine?” Grantaire asks.

“It’s your choice Grantaire,” Enjolras sighs. “But I hope not.”

The tightrope that is her control snaps - she presses Enjolras into the couch below her, kisses her with everything she has. Her heart beats faster than she thought was possible.

They’re kissing and the sky is falling, pigs are in the sky with the birds, there’s a blizzard brewing in hell, and the world has tilted off its axis. Enjolras’ tongue traces the contours of her mouth - and everything has shifted.

Grantaire doesn’t know which way is up or which way is down, and if you asked her the colour of the sky at this moment, she wouldn’t be able to answer.  Everything is teeth and tongues and pent up aggression - it’s fire, and she’s losing herself in the flames. She’s lost in Enjolras and Enjolras is lost in her and she never wants this to stop.

“We have to talk about this,” Enjolras gasps when they pull away for air.

“I know.” Grantaire stares at Enjolras’ mouth, already bright red from Grantaire’s continued attention. “But not now.”

“Not now,” Enjolras agrees.

And she surges forward, presses her lips to Grantaire’s - and it’s not long before she’s licking Grantaire’s mouth open expertly.

Grantaire makes a broken sound that only spurs Enjolras on. She kisses Grantaire harder, and Grantaire knows that this is going to be the death of her. She’d always thought she’d die in a fight, or maybe she’d be like one of those other protectors in the books and die of, of old age or whatever, but no. She’s going to be the first person to die of combustion due to being kissed.

She needs to pull away to take a breath, but she’d rather die than let her lips lose contact with Enjolras’. She’s so torn, her breath stutters against Enjolras’ lips - so she compromises. She pulls away, just for a second and Enjolras makes a protesting noise in the back of her throat, to Grantaire’s giddy delight.

She trails kisses down Enjolras’ jaw, pausing to suck a bruise at the base of her neck. Enjolras groans and the sound sends shivers down Grantaire’s back. Her entire body feels set aflame.  

She grazes her teeth over the tendons in Enjolras’ neck and Enjolras shuts her eyes.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted to do this,” Enjolras gasps, and, _fuck_ \- that’s the moment that Enjolras chooses to slip her hands up Grantaire’s shirt, splaying them across her belly. Grantaire pulls her mouth away, losing herself in the sensation of Enjolras’ hands moving their way up her stomach and cupping her bra-covered breasts. Grantaire lets out a bitten-off groan.

They freeze, gazing at each other - and, God, with her mussed hair and red lips, Enjolras has never looked more beautiful. Grantaire wants to fuck her so bad. She wants to see her fall apart. She wants to make Enjolras speechless, with her hands, her mouth, until she can’t think about anything else but Grantaire. She wants Enjolras’ mouth on her breasts. She wants her hands down her pants. She wants to have her and be had in every way possible. She wants Enjolras to belong to her, as surely and as completely as Grantaire already belongs to Enjolras.

Grantaire croaks out, “We should -”

“Bed,” Enjolras interrupts, and, well, that works for Grantaire.

Grantaire stands up and drags Enjolras up with her perhaps a little too eagerly, but Enjolras doesn’t seem to be complaining. In fact, she might even be just as keen as Grantaire is to get to her room. Their lips stay glued to each other’s all the way to Enjolras’ room, Enjolras occasionally pushing Grantaire up against almost every wall they pass to kiss her more deeply.

By the time they finally get to Enjolras’ bedroom, patience is a completely foreign concept to both of them. Enjolras pushes Grantaire back onto her bed - and she has no time to freak out about the fact that she’s in Enjolras’ bed, (the bed that Enjolras sleeps on every night, the bed that she wakes up in every morning, the bed she’s probably touched herself on) before Enjolras presses her down below her and kisses her frantically.

The tip of Enjolras’ tongue darts out and traces Grantaire’s lips, and Grantaire parts her mouth instinctively. Enjolras takes that opportunity to slip her tongue inside Grantaire’s mouth - and, Jesus fucking _Christ_ , Enjolras has the most talented tongue.

Enjolras starts kissing her way down Grantaire’s neck, making her shiver slightly. With Enjolras’ help, she pulls her shirt over her head and throws it on the ground. Enjolras then wastes no time in sucking bruises all over her neck, and Grantaire is burning up, and they’re not even fully undressed yet, which -

“You’re still dressed,” Grantaire says, mournfully.

Enjolras smirks up at her, and Grantaire’s heart stutters in her chest. Enjolras is far too lovely for one person. There’s a fire in her eyes that threatens to consume, and Grantaire’s body is set alight under the sheer force of it.

Enjolras sets upon removing the rest of both of their clothing, her nimble fingers undoing buttons and zippers as quickly as possible, and Grantaire is never going to tease her about efficiency again because holy fucking shit is she grateful for it now.

The sunshine that spills over Enjolras’ shoulders in the form of golden curls tickles at Grantaire’s chest as Enjolras sets about marking Grantaire’s collarbone with her teeth. She barely gives Grantaire enough time to appreciate the view of her pale, slender body, but Grantaire isn’t complaining. It’s not as though this is the first time Grantaire’s seen her naked - but there’s a difference between walking in on someone changing and … _this_. Enjolras is as stunning without clothes on as she is with them. Or more stunning. She has the body of a Roman statue, a modern day Diana. Her small breasts press against Grantaire’s and the friction is not nearly enough.

Enjolras looks up at her, gaze intense and completely focused on Grantaire - which Grantaire commends her for, because at this point her mind is threatening to spin off into another dimension.

Grantaire pushes at her lightly - Enjolras takes the hint and straightens them both into a sitting position.

“What do you want?” Grantaire asks. Because she’s thought about this so much, she has so many things she wants to do to Enjolras, or wants Enjolras to do to her, or  wants them to do together ... If she spends too much time thinking about it, she’ll give herself performance anxiety, and that’s the last thing she needs right now.

Enjolras’ eyes rove over Grantaire’s body, taking her in, before meeting her gaze, and Grantaire flushes under her inspection. She fights the part of herself that wants to turn her face away and wrap herself up with a sheet.

“I want you,” Enjolras says simply. She looks at Grantaire seriously, an eyebrow raised, as though she didn’t just make Grantaire’s entire day - entire _life_ \- with just those three words.

“You have me,” Grantaire replies, all honesty, nothing else. “I promise. I’m yours.”

Enjolras’ eyes widen and her mouth parts momentarily - and for a moment Grantaire wonders if she’s revealed too much, gone too far, let her emotions carry her away.

But then, Enjolras rushes forward and presses her lips to Grantaire’s. It’s soft and gentle and everything Enjolras isn’t, and Grantaire can’t stop a happy sigh from escaping.

Enjolras crawls towards her and straddles her in one fluid motion, then pushes her back against the headboard with a thump, and Grantaire doesn’t want to know where she learned to do that, she really doesn’t - but Enjolras doesn’t even give her a chance to think about it, just keeps kissing her. Grantaire thinks she doesn’t ever want to stop kissing Enjolras.

 _Perhaps this could be my job_ , she thinks, trailing her fingertips up Enjolras’ sides. _I’ll be a professional kisser from now on_. She could just spend her days with her hands tangled in Enjolras’ hair and her lips sliding over Enjolras’ mouth. She doubts she’d find much to complain about.

Enjolras’ hands are at the back of Grantaire’s head, pulling her in - deeper and deeper, and Grantaire is powerless to resist. Her hands move to the small of Enjolras’ back and make themselves comfortable. Enjolras tugs at Grantaire’s hair slightly, and Grantaire moans in response. She can feel Enjolras smile against her lips - Enjolras hasn’t smiled this much in all the time Grantaire’s known her. Well, okay, no, that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but Grantaire thinks she should be able to hyperbolise all she wants right now. Because right now, this, Enjolras in her arms wanting her the way she seems to, is everything she’s never been able to dream of.

“Jesus,” Grantaire groans, pulling away with a gasp and looking at Enjolras with wide eyes. She takes a moment to just admire her.

Enjolras’ hair is tangled some from Grantaire’s roaming fingers. Her lips have been bitten to bright red, her eyes are darkened with lust, and she’s looking at Grantaire with an intensity that makes her shiver inside - and even so, she’s never looked so human before. She’s never looked so beautiful.

Grantaire wants to say something, but her mind is racing and she’s scrambling to find the right words.

“Will you just kiss me already?” Enjolras snaps. And, somehow, _that’s_ the thing that settles Grantaire’s jumbled thoughts.

“It hasn’t even been ten minutes and you’re already riding the bitch town express. I thought this was supposed to be our honeymoon phase?” Grantaire teases, cocking a brow. But she still pulls Enjolras in closer and kisses her - after all, who is she to disobey a direct order?

She hooks her leg across Enjolras’ hip and turns them sharply, so that she’s on top. She could pretend that she didn’t do that just so she could see Enjolras’ golden hair splayed across her pillows the way she always imagined it, only better, but there would be no point. Enjolras spreads her legs and hikes her knees up, letting Grantaire settle in between her legs.

Enjolras is anything but pliant beneath her, her hands stroking Grantaire’s back as Grantaire presses kisses to her shoulder.

When Grantaire fantasised about Enjolras, it was never quite this. The few times she let herself think about it, she thought it would be fast and dirty - Enjolras allowing her to go down on her with a raised brow, barely making a sound as Grantaire desperately tried her hardest to please her, Enjolras granting her the privilege of riding her knee afterwards as a reward, Grantaire lost with the taste of Enjolras still on her tongue, coming as Enjolras firmly gripped her hips and pushed her down onto her leg.

Instead, it’s Enjolras smiling brighter than the fucking sun as Grantaire lies between her legs, running her hands through her hair, gasping when Grantaire puts her mouth to her breasts and her hands start to trail lower.

Grantaire slips her hand between Enjolras’ legs and slides a finger through her wetness, playing with the damp curls.

“Do you like this?” Grantaire asks, before lavishing attention to her other breast.

“More,” Enjolras whispers, and Grantaire sucks a rosy bud into her mouth before pulling off of her nipple with an exaggerated pop.

“More of what?” Grantaire asks cheekily, looking up. Enjolras isn’t glaring at her the way she expected - instead, her lips are parted and she’s looking at Grantaire, eyes dark. Grantaire bites her lip - there’s no way she’ll be able to tease Enjolras as much as she wants to right now, not when Enjolras is looking at her as though she wants to devour her whole. She just doesn’t have that sort of restraint; indulgence is her greatest weakness, after all.

“Come up here,” Enjolras says softly. She doesn’t give Grantaire the chance to choose whether or not to follow that order - just takes Grantaire’s face in her hands, pulls her into a kiss. Grantaire kisses back frantically and Enjolras moans into it, wrapping her legs around Grantaire’s waist.

Grantaire trails a finger along Enjolras’ slick folds before slipping a finger inside her, then moves her other hand from Enjolras’ breast to grip her hip. Enjolras tosses her head to the side and thrusts her hips upwards, taking Grantaire’s finger deeper. The position is uncomfortable for Grantaire - her wrist is starting to ache - but she twitches her fingers anyway. She wants to see the look on Enjolras’ face as she does it.

“How do you like it?” Grantaire asks, her lips ghosting above Enjolras’.

“Like _that_ ,” Enjolras grunts. Grantaire moves her hand at a steady pace. “Just like - _fuck_ -”

Enjolras’ voice breaks off into a gasp as Grantaire slips another finger inside her. A warm heat pools in Grantaire’s gut as Enjolras moans softly. Grantaire feels giddy and happy - she just wants to giggle forever - but she doesn’t. Instead, she mouths at Enjolras clavicle, trying to hide her smile.

Enjolras notices, though, because she looks at Grantaire, her eyes hazy, and grins right at her. She looks beautiful - head thrown back in ecstasy, laughing as Grantaire fucks into her. Grantaire’s struck for a moment by how happy she is.

She surges upwards and kisses Enjolras again - that’s something she’s never going to tire of. They trade open-mouthed kisses, and Grantaire starts moving her hand faster. The joy they were just feeling a minute ago hasn’t dissipated, but the need for Grantaire to see Enjolras’ face as she takes her apart suddenly comes upon her. And the fact that Grantaire’s forearm is rubbing up against her own wetness isn’t really helping - especially since it’s not giving her the friction she needs.

Enjolras’ heels dig into the small of Grantaire’s back, spurring Grantaire to fuck her harder.  They aren’t even kissing anymore - just panting against each other’s mouths, a sharing of breaths that sends shivers down Grantaire’s spine.

“You’re so good,” Enjolras whispers. Her sweet breath caresses Grantaire’s skin as she drags her barely-there nails down Grantaire’s back. “You’re so - goddess. I love you.”

Grantaire twists her fingers sharply - which, apparently, is just the thing that Enjolras needed to urge her on.

“I’ve wanted you like this for so long - in my bed - fucking me like - right there,” Enjolras groans. “Fucking me like this - God. I knew it would be good, but - this is just - you’re so -” Her voice breaks off into a soft moan.

“Fuck,” Grantaire whispers. She struggles to listen to Enjolras’ oaths through the blood rushing in her ears, not wanting to miss a word. She presses the heel of her palm against Enjolras’ clit, and Enjolras’ words turn into babbled nonsense, then high pitched moans. Grantaire never thought Enjolras would be the type for incoherency, but apparently today really is a day for learning new things.

Every helpless sound from Enjolras’ mouth is like a symphony that Grantaire wants to play to its finale.

Grantaire curls her fingers, stroking the insides of her walls as she goes. Enjolras’ hands scramble at her back. She clutches onto Grantaire, her blunt nails dragging across Grantaire’s skin as they rake down her back. The heel of her feet dig harder into Grantaire’s back, and Enjolras’ moans turn into gasps and then to moans again - and Grantaire knows that she’s close. She works her hands relentlessly, rubbing against her, driving her fingers quickly and steadily as Enjolras arches into it, riding her hand.

Grantaire tightens the hand on Enjolras’ hip, pressing her down into the bed as she starts to thrust wildly.

When Enjolras comes, it’s with Grantaire’s name on her tongue and Grantaire’s fingers buried inside her. Grantaire fucks her through her orgasm, and Enjolras clenches around her, not letting up until Enjolras pushes at her, weakly.

Grantaire sits up and looks at Enjolras, panting against the red sheets. Her hair is mussed up beyond control - Grantaire reaches her hand out to comb her fingers through the golden curls and straighten them out as best as she can. Enjolras closes her eyes as Grantaire strokes her hair and Grantaire smiles at the sated expression on the woman’s face.

Enjolras opens her eyes, just barely, and Grantaire smirks. “Worn out?” she asks.

“Not just yet,” Enjolras replies. “I can still -”

Enjolras’ eyes widen, whatever she was about to say forgotten as Grantaire starts to lick her hand clean. The tangy saltiness on her tongue makes her groan a little - she’s always wanted to taste Enjolras, but never anticipated how much she would like it. And given the way Enjolras is trailing Grantaire’s mouth with her eyes, she likes it, too. Grantaire goes more slowly, making a show of it as Enjolras mouth opens slightly. By the time she’s done, Enjolras’ eyes look a little glazed over.

“Are you -”

“Give me a minute,” Enjolras says, breathless.

“I’ll give you all the minutes you need,” Grantaire replies. She means for it to sound light, but it comes out so honest.

Enjolras grins up at her lazily. Grantaire’s only remembered ever seeing a smile this relaxed on Enjolras face once before: the time Combeferre and Feuilly managed to wrangle a group call with all their friend-protectors, and they spent hours chatting. Grantaire had never seen Enjolras smile that widely until that day. And then, now.  

Enjolras beckons her forward with her fingers, and Grantaire willingly follows. (She’d follow Enjolras anywhere.) In barely a second, Enjolras has easily seized the back of Grantaire's neck and pulled her into a kiss. They lie next to each other on their sides, trading slow, languid kisses as Enjolras’ hands roam Grantaire’s back.

Grantaire traces the skin on Enjolras’ arm with a feather light touch, and Enjolras’ hands move lower, exploring Grantaire’s body.

“You’re lazy after you come,” Grantaire mumbles into her mouth. “But I can’t complain, you look beautiful in your afterglow.”

“You flatterer,” Enjolras murmurs, moving her mouth to Grantaire’s jaw.

Their legs are tangled together, and the blazing inferno in Grantaire’s gut has dawdled to a slow, burning flame. Enjolras is gripping her love handles - and the part of Grantaire that feels insecure about them is definitely present, but it’s quickly pushed aside by the part that loves the way Enjolras holds onto her so tight - tight enough to bruise.

She almost doesn’t notice it when Enjolras slips her hands between her legs. _Almost_. She’s so wet from making Enjolras come, her thighs are slick with it.  And she hasn’t even been touched yet.

She spreads her legs, and Enjolras presses two fingers against her. Grantaire gasps and pushes her hips forward as Enjolras rubs slow circles around her clit.

“Do you like that?” she asks, breathily. “How do you like it?”

“Harder,” Grantaire tells her, voice raspy as her hand grasps the sheets around her.

Enjolras starts rubbing her roughly, and Grantaire rocks into it. She likes it like this - hard enough to know that it’s real.

Enjolras kisses her, and it’s with no finesse - it’s sloppy and messy, and Grantaire loses herself in it, in the sense of Enjolras. She runs her other hand through Enjolras’ hair, clutching at her silky soft locks.

Enjolras teases at her entrance with a finger, and Grantaire gasps - a strangled gasp that makes Enjolras rub her faster. She pushes a finger inside her, and Grantaire clenches around it. She’s already close from earlier.

Grantaire wrenches her mouth away from Enjolras’, her fist tightening around the sheets. “Fuck.”

“That’s what I’m doing,” Enjolras says, looking at Grantaire so fiercely that goosebumps rise on her skin.

“Give me more.”

Enjolras doesn’t hesitate - just slips another finger inside her. Grantaire shuts her eyes, rolls her hips faster. And then, as if there wasn't already _enough_ , Enjolras moves her unoccupied hand to Grantaire’s breasts and toys with her nipples.

The air surrounding her is thick with the sense of Enjolras and Grantaire can’t help the high pitched whimpers escaping her lips.

“Come for me,” Enjolras whispers against her lips - then recaptures them herself.

With the feel of Enjolras inside her and all around her, her tongue in her mouth and her fingers working her steadily, Grantaire's climax doesn't take long. She feels it spread from a low heat in her stomach up to her heart, her mind, her soul - every cell in her body.

Her body shakes with the aftershocks.

When she comes to, Enjolras’ hands are still moving inside her, although at a slower pace. Grantaire grabs her wrist and she stills.

Enjolras pulls her hand away and, with a curious expression, licks it clean. And Grantaire definitely understands Enjolras’ reaction before - it’s the hottest thing ever. Well, no, the hottest thing ever is the mind blowing sex she just had, but it’s a close second.

Grantaire ignores her shaking limbs and kisses her - and, really, she will never get tired of this - just so that she can taste herself on Enjolras’ tongue, and Enjolras kisses back with the same gusto. There’s still a pleasant tingle all over her body, even as she and Enjolras pull away from each other.

Grantaire can’t stop herself from pressing her face into the pillow next to her and giggling. She laughs until her sides hurt, and then she laughs some more. When she looks up again, her eyes are watering and her hair is tangled all over her face, but she can’t bring herself to care. It’s rare for her to feel this … _happy_ , and she wants it to last forever.

“Finished?” Enjolras asks wryly, but there’s a smile on her face. She looks just as happy as Grantaire feels.

“Not even a little bit,” Grantaire says. She inches closer to Enjolras, and Enjolras follows suit.

Grantaire reaches out to trace her fingers across Enjolras’ cheekbone. In return, Enjolras puts her finger to Grantaire’s jaw and presses softly.

“Was that … good for you?” Enjolras asks, hesitant.

“Brilliant,” Grantaire replies, grinning. “Best shag I’ve ever had.”

“Don’t joke.” Enjolras rolls her eyes a little.

“Hey,” Grantaire says, serious, “I’m not lying. I’ve never felt like this about anyone. Ever. Everything we do is going to be the best to me.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Grantaire shifts to lie on her back and let Enjolras nestle her head in the crook of her neck, and she’d gladly stay like this forever.

“Okay,” Enjolras says, wrapping her arms around Grantaire’s waist.

-

Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta call the next morning, and the high that Enjolras and Grantaire are riding on falls flat before they even have a chance to really bask in it.

“I need a fucking drink.” Bossuet sighs, and Musichetta nudges him in the side.

“What Bossuet means to say,” Musichetta says with a roll of her eyes, “is that we have new information.”

Grantaire takes a close look at her friends.  Their faces are worn and slightly bruised, their usually glowing green skin now dim - sickly, instead of effervescent. Outside of that, they seem relatively unharmed. Grantaire lets out a breath of relief she didn’t know she was holding.

Grantaire’s sitting next to Enjolras with the communicator in the middle of the bed. With their messy hair, sleepy eyes, and hastily thrown on clothes, Grantaire knows it’s obvious that they’ve recently shagged. And the fact that none of their friends are even teasing them about it tells Grantaire how serious this is.

“How bad?” Enjolras responds immediately to the idea of a possible threat, as usual.

“Not bad,” Joly says slowly. “It’s just-”

“It’s bad.” Musichetta cuts her boyfriend off without any hesitation. “This is a personal call for a reason.”

Enjolras nods as if to say, go on. She pushes her hair out of her eyes, her face hardening.

“Joly heard something when he was patching up a raider,” Musichetta begins.

“He was patching up a _what_?” Enjolras asks harshly.

“Don’t give me that attitude,” Musichetta retorts - and she must really be stressed, because she usually isn’t one for losing her temper. “We’re not big on the killing, you know that.”

Joly’s eyes are averted, Bossuet’s arms are crossed, and he’s looking at Musichetta with a calm expression. Musichetta is the only one looking at Enjolras and Grantaire - but the falseness of her smile is betrayed by the anger in her eyes.

Grantaire sighs. Enjolras is going to be on edge about this for days - she hates upsetting her friends.

“What was it that you needed to tell us, sweetling?” Grantaire asks.

“Don’t you chat me up.” Musichetta’s lips quirk upwards, which Grantaire counts as a win.

Musichetta exhales heavily before looking at both of them. “There are sleepers in both our planets.”

“What?” Enjolras exclaims, at the same time as Grantaire asks, “What does that even mean?”

“That’s impossible,” Enjolras states. “They were supposed to have been wiped out decades ago.”

“Yes, well, I believe the protectors before us missed a few.” Joly says.

“Anyone wanna clue me in on what you’re all on about?”

“Sleepers are like us, in a way,” Musichetta explains. “They’re foreigners who were sent to different planets when they were babies. Except they’re not like us. They don’t have a specific time when they have to start working - they awaken when they’re needed.”

“They’re also pretty fucking deadly, or are we just forgetting that part?” Bossuet asks.

“Yes, yes, love. No one’s forgetting that.”

“How many?” Enjolras asks.

“No clue,” Musichetta replies.

“And the others? Do they know?” Enjolras asks, urgently.

“Not yet, no,” Joly answers.

“Well, go on. Let everyone else know,” Enjolras says, her tone even again. “Thanks for letting us know.”

Musichetta nods, then shuts off her communicator, leaving them in darkness.

Enjolras is worried, Grantaire can tell. She’s tapping her fingers and wearing that constipated look that means her mind’s racing, and Grantaire may not know much about these sleepers, but they have to be bad news for Enjolras to be this concerned.

“Did everything just get -”

“Ten times worse,” Enjolras finishes for her. “Yeah, it did.”

-

It’s not even noon by the time Enjolras and Floreal start networking, leaving it to Grantaire to inform the mayor, for once.She doesn’t even have the chance to throw on anything more elaborate than a pair of slacks and a vest before Enjolras shoves her out of the door - which she excuses, because she’s starting to understand how important this is.

From what Enjolras said while fluttering about the room like an excited bird, sleepers are pretty dangerous when they awaken, and they can match them evenly, which is a daunting prospect.

She has to wait for almost an hour, since the usual secretary isn’t there and this one isn’t that familiar with her. By the time she actually gets in to see Valjean, she has ten messages on her phone from Enjolras. She’ll have to worry about those later, she thinks, as Valjean greets her with a smile.

“What do you know about sleepers?” Grantaire asks the moment she’s seated.

Valjean’s smile drops and his face grows ashen - which pretty much tells Grantaire all she needs to know.

-

“Where have you been?” Enjolras asks the moment Grantaire opens the door. “I’ve been calling you for over an hour.”

“Are you joking?” Grantaire asks, confused. “You’re the one who sent me to talk to Valjean.”

“That’s not what I mean, you -” Enjolras huffs, exasperated, then grabs Grantaire by the arm. She drags her inside to reveal their living room filled with people. Grantaire does a double take.

“What the fuck?” she turns to Enjolras, who’s grinning at her.

“This is what I was trying to tell you,” Enjolras says, smugly. “We have an army.”

-

Army is a bit of an overstatement, in Grantaire’s opinion.

When she settles next to Enjolras in the drawing room and finally does a headcount, she counts less than a dozen people in the room, which doesn’t particularly fill her with hope. The fact that the barmy reporter, Mabeuf and their ancient landlady happen to be amongst the group fills her with even less hop. Not that Grantaire’s all that ageist, but she’d probably feel bad if they break a hip trying to save the earth or something like that.

And then there’s Red, the mayor’s secretary - or Dahlia, as the bald, Indian woman with a wry smile keeps informing Grantaire every time Grantaire uses her nickname.

There are only two unfamiliar faces in the room, but neither Enjolras nor any of the past protectors bother with introductions before continuing to discuss their plan of action.

“Uh, excuse me,” Grantaire interrupts rather loudly - well, if she’s supposed to get to know these people, they’ll have to deal with her bluntness sooner or later. “How exactly are the geriatrics going to be of assistance with this mess?”

Enjolras groans, shooting Grantaire a wary glance as she does so. It’s nice to know that some things never change. Everyone else in the room, including Irma - who normally likes it when she acts like a prick - is glaring at her, but Grantaire’s used to things like that. It doesn’t bother her so much. Okay, maybe it does a _little_ , but she’s good at pretending it doesn’t.  She gives all of them a cheeky smile.

“What my partner means,” Enjolras says, hooking her arm through Grantaire's (to which Floreal gives a smirk and Irma a raised brow), "isthat she’s not sure if any of you have kept yourselves in fighting shape - which is beside the point, really, because we’ll take any help offered to us. Won’t we, R?”

Enjolras elbows her in the side, which - _ouch_ ,

“Well, there is that saying about beggars and choosers,” Grantaire says. She got stuck with the arsehole gene, yeah, but she’s not usually purposefully malicious. “Look, I’m sorry, but I’m a bit nervous here, you know. It’s just -”

“This is their first time dealing with something this big,” Floreal interrupts her smoothly. “We’ve all been there, haven’t we?”

The tall, white, grey-haired man with a buzz cut and a cane in his left hand gives Grantaire a cool, appraising look. “We’ve all been there, but don’t insult the people who are just here to help you. It makes them unlikely to want to help you in the future.”

“Okay, Fauchelevent,” Dahlia says with a smile. “We’ll listen to your wise words and all that later. Now, we have to deal with this mess.”

“Dahlia and Zephine were the protectors who came just before you two.” Floreal informs Grantaire with a smile. “They’ll have better contacts than all of us combined.”

“Contacts?” Grantaire asks, curiously.

“Sweetheart, why do you think we’re here?” Zephine asks.

-

When Grantaire wakes up the next morning, Enjolras is plastered to her back, her face tucked into the curve of Grantaire’s neck.

It’s nice - just the two of them together, lying peacefully. Grantaire feels as though she’s in a dream she never wants to wake up from. Enjolras’ hand is wrapped around her waist, lying against her stomach, and she’s making lazy circles with her fingers that threaten to makes Grantaire’s stomach shake from laughter.

“Are you awake?” Enjolras asks after a moment.

“Mmnn,” Grantaire mumbles in response.

“No,” Enjolras breathes. And her hand moves from Grantaire’s stomach and down past the band of her underwear. “I mean, are you _awake_?”

Enjolras presses her fingers against Grantaire’s clit, and her entire body comes alive.

“I am now.”

-

They don’t leave Enjolras’ room for an hour - and when they finally do, their drawing room is jam-packed with people.

Fauchelevent, Mabeuf, and Dahlia are setting up something in the middle of the room; Miss Hucheloup, Irma, and Floreal are sitting on the sofa with their heads together, talking; Zephine, Cosette, and for some reason, Marie, Cosette’s feyfriend, are on the opposite side of the room, in the middle of a heated discussion.

“What the buggering tits is this?” Grantaire asks loudly. Everyone turns to her.

“You didn’t have a telescope,” Mabeuf says, his brows furrowed. “We’re setting -”

“You’re not really wearing much, love,” Floreal says, interrupting Mabeuf and gesturing to Grantaire’s half-naked body.

Enjolras sleeps with a vest and shorts on, so Grantaire’s the only one who’s technically indisposed.

Grantaire’s cheeks flush, and she heads back into her room to throw something on, grumbling all the way. This is ridiculous. It’s not like she asked for the alien invasion in her drawing room.

When she gets back to the living room, Enjolras is talking to Dahlia as Mabeuf and Fauchelevent continue setting up a telescope.

Grantaire watches the congregation of people in her flat with wariness. She’s not ungrateful about the help they’re getting, and that telescope probably cost more than Grantaire’s life, but it’s strange to see their flat so full of people.

Enjolras presses a kiss upon her lips, soft and chaste - nothing like the heated kisses they’ve previously shared - before sitting next to her.

“They want to look out for any aviceptors that might be coming our way,” she says, answering the question Grantaire didn’t actually ask. “It’s a good idea. We haven’t heard from Combeferre and Courfeyrac yet, but it can’t hurt to be safe, don’t you think?”

“Yeah.” Grantaire shakes her head. “I suppose not.”

-

This - people randomly invading her flat without any invitation - becomes a frequent occurrence. And while she was a little, or possibly a lot, irritated by it during the first week, by the second week she’d just grown used to walking inside her flat and finding people inside eating her food, drinking her booze, and having conversations about battles with cloud-shaped, water-breathing aliens.

“I mean, we had to sacrifice Atlantis, but those monsters were destroyed and the Earth was safe,” Fauchelevent says, looking down solemnly. “At the end of the day, that’s what truly matters.”

Enjolras is listening to him intently, barely noticing Grantaire’s pursed lips. Grantaire is nothing like her partner - she’s always had a problem believing in risking other people’s lives for the sake of the Greater Good. And listening to this speech is about to send her teetering off the edge.

With all the planning and tactical meetings this past week, she’s barely had a moment to herself, much less some time with Enjolras when they aren’t both about to pass out. She’s both exhausted and buzzed all the time - what she wants the most is to get all this frustration out and then, maybe, sleep for a year or two, but she can’t. She has to save all that energy for the Minettia, and the wait is killing her.

And if she has to listen to this old geezer retell his life's story for another fucking second …

She pushes herself to a stand, abruptly.

“I’m gonna go help Mabeuf with … the tea.” She trails off weakly when she realizes that nobody's listening.

She hasn’t really been able to get along with Fauchelevent since they’ve met, anyway. Mabeuf, on the other hand, likes her just fine, but that’s probably because he’s used to her. She’s been told that she can be abrasive at times, and has a difficult personality to like if you don’t know her well, which is just - she’s peaches and cream compared to Enjolras, but whatever.

When she enters the kitchen, she finds the grey-haired old man rummaging through her cupboards.

“The tea leaves are on the counter,” Grantaire says, hoisting herself up upon said counter.

Mabeuf bumps his head against the mahogany cabinet as he pulls away. He smiles at her vacantly, and this is the sort of thing that used to make her think of him as daft.

“The tea?” she reminds him.

“Of course,” he huffs, gently. “Yes, well I was just trying to pass some time.”

“Some time until what?”

“Fauchelevent is … one of my dearest and closest friends, the most important person in my life. But when he starts …”

“It’s hard to get him to stop?” Grantaire finishes for him.

“Yes,” Mabeuf says with a fond smile.

He leans against the kitchen counter and fixes his stare on her.

She’s never quite liked the theory that someone’s eyes tell their age. Looking at the youthful twinkle in Mabeuf’s hazel orbs, Grantaire finds it hard to believe that he’s older than ten, even with the wrinkles.

“Do you know anyone like that?” he asks her.

“I’d say Enjolras,” Grantaire answers with a wry smile, “but if you ask her, I’m sure she’d say me.”

“Some people are like that,” Mabeuf says. “Opposite, but the same. You and your Enjolras seem to be that sort.”

“She isn’t my - well, she is, but it’s not … It’s complicated.” And Grantaire really needs to stop stumbling over her words. It’s embarrassing.

The thing about her and Enjolras is that, well, they haven’t really talked about it yet - about what happened between them. It’s just so comfortable, basking in the attention and the warmth that comes from being around her, but Grantaire has no idea what they are. Their relationship is new, and it isn’t. It seems presumptuous to call Enjolras her girlfriend when they haven’t even had that discussion yet - and even if she could, she doesn’t think she’d want to. What she has with Enjolras feels like more than that, much more. And she doesn’t know how to put it into words.

“I see,” Mabeuf says kindly. “I’ve been in that place that you are now, and trust me, it gets easier.”

“Oh,” Grantaire says, and she can’t stop her voice from getting a little rough as she speaks. “It gets easier, does it? Well, hallelujah for that. Nice words of wisdom there. Got any more?”

“Don’t be so thick-headed,” Mabeuf says. Grantaire finds that even though she’s way past the age, a scolding still makes her feel as cowed as a five year old on time-out.

“Sorry,” she mumbles because, as eccentric as he is, she really does like Mabeuf.

She doesn’t actually actively _try_ to be a prat - it’s just something that comes to her naturally.

He shakes his head, “Don’t be _sorry_. Just be cleverer than this. We’ve all been where you are - that’s why we’re trying to help you. We need that sharp tongue and sharp mind of yours, but don’t use them to attack _us_. We’re not your enemies.”

“I know,” Grantaire says quietly. “I’m just -”

“Worried?” he prods.

Mabeuf turns around and starts arranging teacups on a tray.

“Confused,” she corrects him.

“About?” he asks, shuffling over to the sink to fill the kettle.

Grantaire watches Mabeuf’s hands as he goes about making the tea. They’re leathery and wrinkled, weathered from age - obviously strong if his grip is anything to go by, but still sort-of fragile-looking. As though his skin could tear if you just touch it. And she has no idea why this is what she chooses to focus on as she talks.

“About everything. I have no idea what I’m doing. Do you realise that?” Grantaire runs a hand through her hair. “And with everything that’s happening now? I mean, I get that on a wider scale, this is nothing. Harder battles have been fought - this is pretty much just a drop of water in an ocean, or the smallest branch on a mighty oak. But if it’s a branch, then I’m just an ant, struggling to carry something five hundred times my own size. My arms are pretty much snapping under the weight of everything. Especially while I’m trying to protect my colony, keep the queen happy, feed my people, and not die in the process - and I know I’m getting carried away in my metaphor here, I don’t even know that much about ants, other than the fact that they bite. Hard. They’re nasty little creatures. They’re pretty much just annoyances, aren’t they? They’re ineffective at actually making a difference, unless the difference is getting a family to pack up their picnic and eat indoors, because, honestly, what’s the point of sitting outside in the grass, trying to have fun, when ants crawl all over your potato salad? They basically make your food inedible, which is actually pretty dangerous.

“Maybe I should take back what I said about them being ineffective - think of how many people would starve to death if ants decided to stake their claim over all the food in the world. That is, unless people start appreciating the healthy crunch of those itchy little creatures. Then, the ants would die in the thousands. It would be a massacre.

“And while I’m sitting there, being eaten without a care by the Minettia ... Enjolras would suffer on her own. She doesn’t need me, of course. Not really. I’m all she has, but if I go, she’d survive - she’d have to. Still, though ... Enjolras needs people. She needs company, even if she’d never admit it. So if I get eaten, trapped between the teeth of some large, scaly, Minettia raider, used as an appetizer, or a pre-meal if you must - you’ll take care of her, right? You’ll take care of Enjolras. Because she’ll need someone to. She’ll run herself to the ground without any supervision.  I can’t believe I’m the responsible one in this scenario - if you were to tell anyone about this conversation, they’d laugh in your face. But there you have it. I’m the adult, and Enjolras is the petulant teenager in need of direction. Or maybe not - some of the things I’ve done with Enjolras, if I do them with a child, I’d give you full permission to burn me alive here and now.

“But that doesn’t change the fact that Enjolras needs to be taken care of if anything happens to me. She needs people in her life - People who love her, people she can touch and hug and find comfort with. You can be one of those people, can’t you? One of Enjolras’ people.”

When she looks up, Mabeuf is staring at her, his eyes wide There’s an amused twinkle in them, though - one that makes Grantaire smile.

“My dear girl,” he says. “I have absolutely no idea what you just said, but from the bits and pieces I did understand, I think you’ll be fine. As long as you have Enjolras, you’ll always be fine.”

Grantaire takes a breath. She knows her tendency to ramble sometimes confuses people, but in this case Mabeuf missed her point completely. She doesn’t care about being fine - she just cares about knowing that Enjolras will always be taken care of, no matter what.

-

“Where the hell have you been, lady?” is the first thing Cosette says when she flies in through Grantaire's bedroom window. Shereally needs to start locking that thing.

“What the fuck?” Grantaire gestures towards Cosette’s unmasked face and wigless appearance.

“What the fuck yourself?” Cosette retorts. She leads Grantaire out of her own room, walking around as though she owns the place, and Grantaire doesn’t even pretend to be surprised.

Cosette pauses abruptly in the middle of the drawing room, then turns around sharply, flinging her high ponytail over her shoulder and crossing her arms.

“I need to talk to you,” she says.

“Talk, then.”

“Where’s Enjolras?” Cosette asks.

“She went to bring Fauchelevent and Mabeuf home. Why?” Grantaire asks, sitting down on the sofa. Cosette remains standing in front of her, gazing at the floor with a troubled expression. “Seriously, Cosette. What the fuck?”

“I have some friends who want to help you whenever you’re ready to fight, but you have to make special allowances for them.”

“Why?” Grantaire asks warily. She already doesn’t like where this is going.

“Because they’re humans,” Cosette says, simply.

“No.”

“But -”

“Cosette, no.” Grantaire repeats. “How can you even ask that?”

“Because you need them. And they’ll be grateful for the story.”

“ _Reporters_ , Cosette?” Grantaire groans inwardly. “I’m not trying to poison you against your own kind, but that’s ten times worse.”

“Don’t be silly,” Cosette says, reproachfully.

“I’m not being silly, I’m being practical.” Grantaire says, containing a sigh. “Seriously. How am I the practical one in this situation? I’m _me_.”

“Look, Grantaire,” Cosette says, more serious than Grantaire's ever seen her. “This is important. And I need you to trust me. I’ll keep them at a safe distance and as protected as possible, but please let them come. It’s important they they’re there. Please, I’m begging you.”

“Cosette,” Grantaire groans. Her voice comes out much whinier than she’d like.

“Just,” Cosette sighs, then makes her way back to the window. “Talk to Enjolras, and get back to me?”

Cosette leaves, and Grantaire shakes her head. She’s sure whatever convoluted plan Cosette has, Enjolras would readily go along with it, just because she respects Cosette and the man who raised her. She loves Enjolras more than life itself, but sometimes the girl is a bit ridiculous.

Putting innocent civilians in harm’s way - what the hell is Cosette even thinking?

Grantaire’s almost grateful that she falls asleep before Enjolras reaches home.

-

Grantaire wakes up to an empty bed the next morning, which is strangely disconcerting. Enjolras usually wakes before Grantaire, but stays in until Grantaire’s up. The few minutes in the morning they've carved out for themselves have become very dear to her.

She and Enjolras have only been sleeping together for a few weeks now, but the bed still feels inordinately empty without her in it.

Grantaire stumbles out of the bed - Enjolras’ bed - and into the drawing room.  She finds Enjolras on the communicator, muttering furiously.

Enjolras doesn’t look up as Grantaire stumbles across the room, but she carelessly pats the seat next to her. Grantaire takes her up on it and sits down, only to see a very dishevelled looking Courfeyrac staring intensely back at her. Stones immediately settle in her stomach, and the anxiety clawing at her chest isn’t sedated when she notices Combeferre’s absence. Courfeyrac rarely calls without him. It’s almost unnatural how close the two of them are - they’re always together.

“Courfeyrac, what’s-”

“How long?” Enjolras cuts across her. Enjolras keeps looking at Courfeyrac urgently, and Courfeyrac sighs. They look worn out. They’re much more blood-splattered than Grantaire has ever seen any of their friend-protectors, and it makes her stomach twist into knots. Courfeyrac themself would seem unfazed if it weren’t for the tear-tracks on their cheeks.

“A day for the most,” says Courfeyrac, pressing their lips together. They spare them a small smile. “Better hop to it, then.”

“I’ll call you back. I promise you that,” Enjolras says, before signing off.

Grantaire clenches her fists together to hide the shaking as Enjolras shoots up like a lightning bolt. She’s not an idiot - she doesn’t know exactly what’s going on, but she knows that there’s need for her to be scared, and she is, but Enjolras isn’t stopping to explain, too busy speedily tapping across her phone, texting god knows who, her blonde hair whipping around as she searches through drawers for something.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says, and she’s grateful that she can barely hear the tremor in her voice. “Do you want to tell me what this is all about?”

There’s a lot more banging about before Enjolras answers. “Combeferre’s in a sedative state. He got cornered without Courfeyrac, and a raider bashed his skull in so hard it caved in, and he -” Enjolras pauses. “They almost lost.”

Enjolras slams her hand against the wall so hard the room shakes and the plaster crumbles. “And now, those _bastards_ are heading here. To us.”

Grantaire takes a second to register the gravity of those words - Combeferre being hurt is almost unimaginable as the world coming to a halt. For as long as she’s known him, Combeferre has seemed immovable, like an untouchable force. She can barely picture the image Enjolras is painting - but she only tries for a second, then closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.

She gestures towards Enjolras. “Come here,” she says, holding her arms wide open.

“Grantaire.” Enjolras shoulders drop into a slump. Her golden mane falls into her face, hiding the expression on her face. “Now is _not_ the time. I have to call Floreal, Fauchelevent and Zephine, and get them to -”

“ _Enjolras_ ,” Grantaire says, more firmly. “ _Come here_.”

Enjolras looks up - and Grantaire can see the tears in her eyes. Enjolras shuffles over to the sofa and sinks to her knees in front of Grantaire.

Grantaire cups Enjolras’ cheeks in her hands and Enjolras presses their lips together. They stay like that for a moment, until Enjolras pulls away from her grip so swiftly that Grantaire thinks she’s going to get up and walk away. But instead, she clutches on to Grantaire’s sweatpants and buries her face in Grantaire’s lap. Grantaire runs her fingers through her partner’s golden hair.

Enjolras is so still and quiet in her lap that Grantaire honestly wouldn’t have even known she was crying if it weren’t for the steadily growing damp spot on her knee.

Grantaire isn’t sure how long they sit there, Enjolras silently crying and Grantaire trying her hardest to comfort her, but Enjolras’ eyes are red-rimmed when she lifts her head.  It’s the only sign of her brief breakdown.

“Thank you,” Enjolras says quietly. Her normally high soprano is raspy and choked up.

“You don’t have to thank me.”

Enjolras laces their fingers together, then presses their foreheads together and shuts her eyes tight.

“Tell me we can do this,” Enjolras says. There’s no question or doubt in her voice - it sounds more like a demand than a plea.

“We _will_ do this,” Grantaire says simply, because they will. They don’t have any other options.  “Now go call Floreal, we have work to do.”

-

The sky is bright for London, which isn’t how it’s supposed to be.

Grantaire’s read the stories - when a massive, fate-of-the-world-determining battle is about to start, it should be dark and gloomy, not bright and sunny. Birds shouldn’t be chirping. The streets should be silent, not bustling with people going about their day without a care in the world. The whole word just seems ... normal.

Everything except her drawing room, which is full of more people than Grantaire thought could even fit, most of them people she's never seen before.She quickly acquaints herself with some of them, though, because the people she _does_ know are too busy bustling about the place to clue her in on anything.

Enjolras is talking to a small crowd, telling them what they need to know about the threat. Irma is showing one of Zephine’s men how a phaser works (“It’s simple, like using a gun. Point and shoot.”), and she sees others doing the same.  Fauchelevent is explaining how to use the sonic blaster to some of his men. Dahlia, Mabeuf and Miss Hucheloup are looking through the telescope and marking something down on a page. Grantaire decides to follow their lead, and start telling a small group of people how their weapons work and where to find the weak spots on Minettia raiders.

It’s not as if she’s completely clueless - she knows that some of Fauchelevent’s old military buddies have come to help, and that Zephine recruited a bunch of scouts from her naval base.  (“One of the perks of being the CMC,” Zephine said.) She knows what she needs to know and more, but the pace at which everything’s moving is still a bit much for her.  Everything seems to have sped into motion within seconds of Enjolras talking to Floreal. It’s as though everything’s moving at double the speed, and Grantaire’s struggling to keep up.

She’s not used to working with such a large team - it’s normally just her and Enjolras. And there’s a part of her that’s not fully able to commit to this, knowing that one of her friends has been seriously injured by the very thing that’s coming to attack them.

Enjolras is snapping out commands and solidifying plans as though she was born to do it, and Grantaire’s almost in awe watching her. This is how Enjolras deals with stress: as flawlessly as she manages everything else. She commands the attention of everyone in the room as effortlessly as drawing moths to a burning flame.

“Given our estimation, we have less than fifteen hours before the enemy lands. Like Grantaire suggested a while ago -” Enjolras nods at her briefly. “We need to take this fight away from the civilians. One of our cohorts recommended Imber, and we agree that it’s a suitable location.”

Grantaire doesn’t remember when they came up with this part of the plan, but she’s glad that someone figured it out. Grantaire folds her arms and leans up against the wall, listening to Enjolras minister to her flock. She’s much better at it than Grantaire ever expected her to be, which in hindsight seems a bit dumb. Enjolras is amazing at everything she does - it’s no big surprise that this is no different.

“Grantaire and I will fly, so we’ll reach before you, but Major Fauchelevent and Commander Zephine has organised transport for everyone else. It will take no more than three hours for you to get there. By then, Grantaire and I will have scoped out the area and put out a signal letting the Minettia know where we are.”

There isn’t really a signal. The Minettia will most likely track them by their bracelets, but they can’t exactly give away _all_ of their secrets.

A short, redheaded man in military gear asks, “What if we’re not allowed in? The place is supposed to be private, right?”

“That has been taken care of,” Enjolras replies curtly. “Anything else?”

The room could hardly be considered silent - most people are murmuring to themselves, and Grantaire can’t figure out if the murmurs are good or bad. No one else speaks up, though, and Enjolras seems pleased with that result.

“Good.” Enjolras nods. “Then, we’ll meet back in three hours.”

A part of Grantaire is overwhelmed by Enjolras’ brilliance. The other part wants to drink until she passes out, do whatever it takes so that she won’t have to deal with what comes next.

-

The wind is beating against their faces as they speed towards their destination, the landscape a messy blur of green spread out below them. There’s no talking as they fly - and anyway the breeze around them would beat out the sound of their voices if they tried.

Enjolras, all geared up, is a sight. Her hair is tied in an intricate knot - beautiful, not simple like Grantaire’s braid. Her red suit clings to her figure flatteringly and her face is hidden behind her mask. She looks every bit the warrior Grantaire knows her to be, and Grantaire feels a burst of pride at being her partner.

Cosette is waiting for them when they land, decked out in her own suit and mask. The mayor stands next to her dressed in black, his face filled with silent determination. Grantaire’s both pleased and confused - she didn’t expect to see him there at all.

“You’ve come to help,” Enjolras says, her lips quirking upwards into a proud smile.

“I couldn’t keep her away,” Valjean explains, his voice exasperated, yet fond.

Cosette laughs and reaches up to peck his cheek before walking towards them.

“Do you want to see where we’ve set up camp?”

The campsite isn’t so much a campsite as it is an empty, grassy plain. It’s almost eerie how still it seems, how excruciatingly loud the silence is. The sense of unnerve that she wanted earlier - well, now she has it, and she’s not sure she likes it very much. It’s only the four of them and the sun overhead, but hopefully not for too long.

Enjolras and Valjean talk strategy while Cosette leads Grantaire away from them a little.

“Right, so I need to tell you something quickly,” she says, her tone urgent.

Grantaire looks at the blue haired girl and starts to worry. “What’s wrong?”

“Remember how I was talking to you about getting some press for this fight?”

“Cosette we talked about this,” Grantaire interrupts. “It’s just not a good idea. It’s not safe for them, okay?”

“Right,” Cosette says. “Well, about that -”

Before she can continue, Cosette’s feyfriend - a tall, willowy figure with sleek, dark brown hair wearing a goddamn sundress - hurries towards them. They’re calling Cosette by name and holding a high-tech camera in their hands.

“I may have chosen to ignore that.”

“Cosette!” Grantaire reprimands her, and Cosette winces, raising placating hands.

Luckily for them, their would-be-argument is interrupted by Enjolras tugging on Grantaire’s arm. Grantaire turns around to find Enjolras staring her down with an irritated grimace - what the hell did she do this time?

“We have company.” Enjolras says, folding her arms.

Grantaire’s heart stops in her chest - this is way too early. She’s mentally prepared herself as much as she could, but she’d at least hoped the rest of the troops would be here before the time came. Her inward panicking turns to static until she hears a familiar lilt coming from behind her.

“Don’t look so constipated, babes. I’m just here to help.”

She spins around rapidly - and there he is, smirking at her. Stupid, sparkly cape and all.

“Montparnasse?”  

-

Cosette and Marie back away for long enough to give Grantaire and Montparnasse some space; Enjolras practices no such formalities. She just glares at Montparnasse with a strange sort of disdain.

“Why are you here?”

“I told you,” Montparnasse replies, sounding bored. “I’m here to help.”

“Fascinating,” Enjolras shoots back, ignoring the sharp glance Grantaire gives her. “How did you even find out about this?”

Montparnasse scoffs. “Are you forgetting that _I’m_ the one who clued you in on the government’s little plan for you two? I know more than you think, princess.”

Enjolras’ nose flares, and Grantaire takes the chance to intervene before Enjolras can retort. “It’s not safe for you here, ‘Parnasse.”

Enjolras folds her arms tightly and purses her lips, as though the thought that Montparnasse could genuinely be hurt if he stayed never crossed her mind.

“I’m stronger than you, think you know,” Montparnasse replies with an amused smirk.

Montparnasse is always going to be Montparnasse, but if he genuinely thinks he can face this with his creepy bandit stealth alone … Grantaire shakes her head “This isn’t a game, Montparnasse.  It’s-”

“It’s war,” Montparnasse says simply. “I know. And I don’t play for both teams.”

“What the fuck does that even mean?” Grantaire asks, exasperated. She's so tired of secrets and confusion.

“It means that I’ve chosen my loyalties, and they’re with the person I’ve known all my life, not a bunch of randoms.”

“If that means what I think it does, give me one reason why I shouldn’t kill you myself.” Enjolras says, tightening her fists the way she does when she’s gearing up for a fight.

“I’d like to see you try.”

“I don’t know what you two are on about and I barely give a damn,” Grantaire says, aiming for calm and missing by a long shot. “But if you don’t fucking quit this right now -”

“He’s saying that he’s a sleeper, R!” Enjolras yells. Her lips curl into a sneer - Grantaire sometimes forgets how cruel Enjolras can be when she wants to. “I knew there was something wrong about you.”

Grantaire looks at Montparnasse, waiting for him to deny the ridiculous claim, make some quip about the only sleeping he needs is his beauty rest - but he doesn’t. He just crosses his arms and glares at Enjolras.

“Montparnasse,” Grantaire says softly.

“Nothing wrong with me, princess,” Montparnasse says. “Just ask babbler and the bird,”

Enjolras’ head snaps around to Cosette, Valjean and Marie - all sitting together in the grass, legs crossed - and her brows furrow, a frown tugging at her lips. She looks betrayed. She sends Montparnasse a final glare before storming off towards them.

Grantaire isn’t an idiot - she gets that Cosette and Valjean know about Montparnasse, and that they have something to do with why he’s here - but unlike Enjolras, that isn’t why she’s upset.

“How long have you known what you are?” she asks him, trying not to let the hurt tint her voice. It’s not as though she and Montparnasse tell each other everything, but she thought something as important as this would at least make the list.

Montparnasse frowns and his expression softens. “Not long, actually.”

“How long is not long, ‘Parnasse?” she snaps. She’s trying to rationalise this in her head - she’s read the history books, the science books, and the warfare books, and she’s heard the horror stories from past protectors themselves: sleepers are not to be trusted. Still, looking at Montparnasse, the oldest friend she has, she finds it hard to reconcile him with the monsters everyone claims sleepers to be.

“I don’t know.” Montparnasse shrugs. “I used to get flashes when I was younger, but I didn’t actually know until a few weeks ago. Remember when I came to you? It was crazy. There were millions of things popping in my head. Knowledge of things I had no idea about. I still think it’s fucking crazy, to be honest. And I was set to ignore it, but … Then, your friend over there got into contact with me.”

“Cosette?” Grantaire asks. The woman in question is currently standing next to her father with her arms crossed as Enjolras has a heated discussion with him. “What does she have to do with anything?”

“She told me her father was a sleeper. She’s half and half.” Montparnasse looks at her strangely. “You didn’t know?”

Grantaire shakes her head dumbly. This explains so much, to be honest: Valjean’s reaction to Grantaire telling him about the sleeper situation, and how disturbed Cosette seemed the day after her father told her about her birth parents. It explains so much and nothing at the same time. Why would they keep that from her and Enjolras?

“Anyway, babbler over there kept yapping on and on about choices and whatnot when Cosette brought me to him, and I just agreed to whatever he said to get him to shut the fuck up.” Montparnasse rolls his eyes, as though the memory irritates him. “He told me I had a choice between fighting with you and fighting with them. I made it.”

Montparnasse says it as though it’s nothing. As though he isn’t betraying his entire home planet and birthright by choosing to fight with her. As though there isn’t even a choice. And Grantaire loves him for it.

Truthfully, if he made the opposite choice, Grantaire wouldn’t know what to do. They weren’t the warmest of friends, but Grantaire could never kill him. She doesn’t even think she could shuttle him off, and that’s the tamest option. She may not have all the best qualities, but no one can accuse her of not being loyal to the people who’ve earned it from her.

“Thank you,” Grantaire says, as earnestly as possible.

“Don’t look too chuffed,” Montparnasse replies. “I just like choosing the winning side. Plus, I have money on this fight. Need to make sure my investment pays off.”

“No one knows about -” Grantaire stops herself when he raises a perfectly arched eyebrow. Of course people know about this, and are apparently placing bets. Human beings never cease to amaze her.

“Right,” Grantaire says. “Well, thank you anyway.”

Montparnasse huffs and squeezes Grantaire’s shoulder before heading off to join Enjolras, who seems to have calmed down but doesn’t appreciate the idea of Montparnasse joining their conversation.

Cosette looks over at her and smiles before walking over - which is good, because Grantaire has several bones to pick with Cosette. Actually, no, she just has two, one of whom is standing in the middle of a discussion most likely about alien warfare with a timid smile on their face and truthfully - that’s the most normal thing that’s happened these past few weeks.

“Why, pray tell, is Marie here?” Grantaire asks, as nonchalantly as if she was just asking the time, when Cosette’s in earshot.

Cosette, poised Miss Manners herself, waits until she’s much closer to Grantaire before she starts talking.

“I told you, someone from the press being here is important,” Cosette says. “Father didn’t want me to fight, so Marie and I are covering this.”

“You’re not fighting with us?” Grantaire asks, caught off guard for a moment.

“’Fraid not,” Cosette sighs, a little wistfully. “I don’t have the constitution for it, really. I’m good at a lot of things, but a battle like this? Not so much.”

Grantaire nods slowly. “Is this about you being half Minettia?”

“No.” Cosette looks up at her sharply. “I’m just - I don’t actually know how to deal with all of this. I wanted to know more about myself for so long, and now that I do …”

“You wish you could forget,” Grantaire guesses.

“Pretty much,” she agrees.

“Why didn’t you tell me about being half Minettia? I’m not Enjolras - my reaction wouldn’t have been _that_ bad.”

“I know,” Cosette says softly. “I guess I was still trying not to feel ashamed about it, you know?”

“I get that,” Grantaire replies because she does, a little. There’s a reason her parents had to find out about her through the papers.

“Still, you should be happy now, Capital R,” Cosette says.  She smiles as she looks over Grantaire’s shoulder. “You have a cavalry.”

-

Fauchelevent leads the large group of people across the grass towards them, and Grantaire’s actually impressed. Seeing these military people, soldiers and warriors, spread across a field is different than just seeing them in her drawing room.

It makes her think that they might have a fighting chance.

Cosette rushes forward to welcome them as graciously as she welcomed Enjolras and Grantaire when they arrived. They seem charmed by her, and some of them recognise her, of course, which makes it much better for her. All of them recognise Valjean, though, and it shows on their faces. Some of them look confused, some of them look awed, and there’s slow, dawning realisation in the faces of a few.

Miss Hucheloup, Dahlia, and Mabeuf quickly busy themselves with putting out the shuttles. Ten of them, which Grantaire thinks is pretty optimistic, while the rest of the troops march across the grass.

They settle quite quickly for humans who have never faced an alien army before. If it were Grantaire, she’d probably be a lot more jittery than they are, but they’re spread across the field, laughing and joking as they prepare their weapons. Fauchelvent gave everyone a phaser and a few batteries to recharge in case the energy runs out. Only past protectors and a few of Zephine’s navy men got blasters, though - Grantaire guesses it’s because they did the best hob handling them. They all seem excited for this, which Grantaire supposes makes sense, in a way. Fighting a war to protect mankind is literally what they signed up for. They take to this much easily than Grantaire expected. It’s a bit of a relief, really - not having to deal with a bunch of jumpy fighters is the best thing that’s happened today.

Enjolras makes her way over to her and folds her arms as she looks over the team.

“We really have something here, don’t we?” she asks.

“Yeah,” Grantaire agrees. “We really do.”

Grantaire slips her arm through Enjolras’ and they stand in silence for a bit, just observing. It’s a natural silence that Grantaire almost doesn't even want to break. But she does, because she needs to.

“About Montparnasse,” she begins, and Enjolras stiffens almost imperceptibly, but Grantaire powers through. “I know you don’t trust him, and I’m not asking you to, but can’t you give him a chance?”

“It’s not up to me,” Enjolras says tightly. “Valjean’s talked to all the past protectors, and they agree that he can help if he truly wants to. I’ve been outvoted, but I don’t much like giving out chances when I’m not one hundred percent certain they won’t be wasted.”

And that’s pretty fair, but Grantaire doesn’t want distance herself from Montparnasse because of this one thing and she’s just about to say so when Enjolras continues talking. “But I suppose it’s possible that he can be useful for something.”

Grantaire turns to follow Enjolras’ gaze to Montparnasse, who is somehow transforming himself into an eerily familiar reptilian creature.  His shell is a strange, almost transparent onyx with small holes, the skin underneath blue and scaly. He still looks like Montparnasse, except he’s three times his usual size, towering even over the indomitable Fauchelevent, and has huge pincers extending from his fingers that drip a black, inky substance. Everyone seems to be watching them with wary unease as Fauchelevent explains how deadly the poison in them is, especially to humans. Massive, scaly wings, a shade lighter than his dark skin, extend from his back, and Grantaire looks at them in awe. His teeth are larger and sharper - Grantaire’s sure he could bite off her hand without breaking a sweat with those things.

“They shape-shift?” Grantaire asks.  She’s curious and, to be honest, little creeped out.

“Apparently,” Enjolras says, looking at him as though she’s almost interested.”None of the books mentioned that.”

“Well, I get what you mean by useful.”

Montparnasse stands in place, shifting from side to side as Zephine shows the soldiers how to disarm him, pointing out his weak spots. Some of the soldiers look queasy, others look enthralled, and Grantaire knows Montparnasse well enough to guess that he’s both revelling in the attention and uncomfortable at being treated as a science project.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says, turning away from the display for a moment. Enjolras turns to face her. “I just want to say, in case anything happens -”

Enjolras untangle their arms and frowns. “You think we’re going to lose this battle?”

“That’s not what I’m saying at all, E,” Grantaire says, a little fondly. A pouting Enjolras is always going to be an adorable Enjolras. “I just want you to know that I love you. Just in case anything happens, okay?”

Enjolras’ face is serious - Grantaire wants to kiss that grim look off of her face. And she could do it, too, if she wanted to. Still, something makes her baulk. She’s so close to heaven, she could kiss the sun, but she doesn’t.

Instead, it’s Enjolras who steps towards her, bridging the gap between them, and kissing her gently. Grantaire gasps a little, not entirely unsurprised but still pleased. She wraps her arms around Enjolras’ waist and Enjolras’ hands come up to grip Grantaire’s face. Her fingers trace Grantaire’s jaw as they kiss each other reverently.

When they finally pull apart, Enjolras presses their foreheads together. “Nothing is going to happen to us. We’re going to win this thing, okay?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire says a little breathlessly, letting her doubt fade for a moment. “We’re going to win this thing.”

They stay entwined in each other until they hear Floreal shout out to them. “Oi, love birds!”

Grantaire and Enjolras jump apart, finally remembering that they’re in front of a pretty decent-sized crowd.

A pink tinge stains Enjolras’ cheeks, and Grantaire turns to Floreal to face the teasing - but Floreal isn’t looking at her. No one is. Their eyes are all trained to the sky, and when Grantaire turns her head up, she understands why.

“We have incoming,” she hears Fauchelevent bark loudly.  

A crack in the sky is opening up, as though it’s nothing. A simple rip, as easy as tearing paper. A black gap in the middle of the light.

An aviceptor unlike anything Grantaire’s ever seen makes its way through the hole, and Grantaire looks at it in awe. The sleek, silver ship is round and massive. The lights under the propellers glow, but Grantaire barely has the time to admire the handiwork, or even be nervous about what’s happening.

Grantaire didn’t see when Cosette, Marie and Miss Hucheloup disappeared - she just knows they’re nowhere to be found, now.

Enjolras is on still her left and Montparnasse finds his way to her right. Everyone else forms a loose circular formation behind them, the protectors of Aracletria on the outer circle. It’s the offense tactic Fauchelevent suggested: a way for no one to ever be attacked from behind.  

“Remember,” Enjolras shouts,  her voice booming over the sound of the engine. “We want to keep them within the perimeter. We’re aiming for the spaces between or inside their shells, if you can get them.”

The ship doors open up, but the ship doesn’t land - Grantaire sees Dahlia grit her teeth at the insult. It’s the Minettia’s way of saying that they think their ship is too good to touch the Earth’s soil. The people who understand the insult seem affronted by it. Grantaire probably would be too (the Earth is her _home_ ) if she wasn’t entirely focused on watching the sky.

Raiders are crawling out from the opening of the ship, and they start leaping to the floor by the dozens. It’s an intimidating sight, these creatures crawling towards them. Some of them are even larger than Montparnasse - nothing like the three scavengers Enjolras and Grantaire fought off years ago. Those were runts compared to these things.  When they all finally disembark, there are about thirty raiders in total.

Their team outnumber the raiders by twenty, and yet fear still envelops Grantaire like a dark shadow. She tries not to let it get to her - after all, this isn’t her first fight, she knows she can kick ass when she wants to. She turns to look at Enjolras, who’s facing the advancing threat with fire in her eyes, and draws fury from her.

_We’re ready for this._

-

Zephine, looking as fierce as Grantaire’s ever seen her, turns to the troops.  “Are we ready for this?!”

An indistinguishable battle cry comes from their team. Grantaire is surrounded by stony faces, loud voices, raising weapons.

One of the raiders starts screeching - a piercing, guttural sound, like nails against a chalkboard, and just like that, the rest of them follow. Grantaire can tell that some of the people in the crowd look terrified by it. It’s a good intimidation tactic if anything, nevertheless Grantaire thinks they just sound like a bunch of wailing infants.

But with those screeches, the bastards get _them_ to attack first. She doesn’t know exactly who it is that shoots first - she just sees a yellow phaser blast, and then everything happens instantly.

The raiders start advancing, their teeth bared, their pincers raised, their yellow snake-like eyes glinting, looking like the predators Grantaire knew them to be.

Grantaire turns around and forces a smile for the worried fighters.

“Don’t let them get to you. We can do this.” She’s not sure if she believes what she’s saying, but she says it anyway. She knows what it’s like to need that reassurance. A few of them nod, and a dark-haired girl who looks no older than Grantaire gives her a grateful smile.

The thing about these raiders is that they need close contact to really succeed in a fight. Three of them fall at some well aimed shots before they can even get close to the group, but that good luck doesn’t last for too long. They’re not known as one of the most dangerous attacker races for nothing. The raiders start to pounce on them, trying to find a space to get inside the circle.

Grantaire uses her blaster to shoot at a raider. Her aim’s a little off, and she misses. It’s easier to get through the holes in their shells in theory - in an actual action-packed situation, they shift from side to side the way Grantaire saw Montparnasse doing earlier. And they’re swifter than he is, more comfortable in their skin.

Fauchelevent gets one of the energy blasts of the phaser through the armour of one of the raiders - and Grantaire is never going to insult the veterans again, because he was pretty much the first one to shuttle a raider off.

The Minettia shuttle flies away.  One of the raiders shrieks at the sky when they notice, which is sort of understandable – that raider’s now on a shuttle to Aracletria, and detainment facilities there aren't exactly known for their civility.

Time passes differently in a fight - everything’s moving slower and faster at the same time. Screams and yells sound distant to Grantaire’s ears as she focuses on aiming for the exposed skin of a raider’s wings.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Enjolras place a well aimed shot at one of the raiders with a cold look of determination. They fall, and Grantaire smirks. Enjolras is very good at what she does. Montparnasse leaps forward and tackles one of the raiders, but someone screams in her periphery, and she suddenly can't focus on what anyone else is doing.

It’s Dahlia, screaming the mayor’s name.

One of the raiders has gotten their pincers in his neck, and they lift him in the air. Their wings flap as they fly high into the sky, so far up that Grantaire can barely see them.

The fight goes on around them. Some people try shooting upwards, but the raider is smart, and stays out of reach. Grantaire takes a deep breath before looking away and recharges her blaster. She needs to focus on the fight here.

She aims a few shots at a raider that’s sneaking up behind one of the soldiers (she thinks his name is Darren.) It’s not a clean shot, but the raider crumples to the floor anyway.

Montparnasse speeds up next to her, and Grantaire grins as he stabs a raider in the chest with his own pincers.

“Holding steady, mate?” she teases.

“I always do,” he replies. It comes out as more of a hiss.

Their conversation is cut short when they hear a loud, sickening crunch. Grantaire spins around to see the crumpled form of Jean Valjean.

Grantaire hears Cosette scream from a distance. It’s agonising, and she winces. Grantaire didn’t see what happened, but she can guess: the raider must have dropped the mayor from a ridiculous height after poisoning him. Even if he could survive the poison, there’s no way he would survive a fall like that.

Grantaire grits her teeth together. She didn’t know him that well, but she did quite like the man.

Her eyes instinctively seek out Enjolras, knowing Enjolras was much closer to the mayor than she was. Her face is a mask of fury, and she lets out an enraged snarl, then pushes her heels backwards and takes up into the sky. Grantaire groans. Enjolras _would_ take this on alone like the self-sacrificing idiot that she is.

Grantaire takes off after her. There’s no way she’s letting Enjolras take on one of those things by herself.

“GO BACK DOWN THERE! THEY NEED YOU!” Enjolras yells when she notices Grantaire following her.

“FUCK YOU!” Grantaire shouts right back. She’s not going to argue about this, and it doesn’t look like Enjolras feels the same way

The raider has a sick smirk on their face when they notice the pair coming. Their wings start flapping harder as they speed along, and Grantaire already hates them for this wild goose chase.

She and Enjolras chase after it, the wind assaulting them like a rain of bullets at the speed they’re going. When they finally catch up with the raider, Enjolras does the stupidest thing Grantaire’s ever seen her do: she aims a kick at them. Grantaire can’t even take the time to call her a fucking idiot - she’s too busy zooming around Enjolras, taking her sonic blaster out and aiming a shot directly at the raider’s jugular.

Grantaire smirks. It’s almost hilarious, the way the raider crashes to the ground in the same way that Valjean did. A bit of poetic justice.

Enjolras smiles at her before they zip back down to the ground in a flash. This fight isn’t over just yet.

When they get back to the ground, the earth is scattered with corpses - both human and Minettia. Red painting the green grass. Grantaire’s eyes scan the crowd, but she can barely see through the bright bursts of energy coming from the weapons. She can hear bodies collapsing and so many screams - that sound is going to haunt her for a while.

The one thing she notices through the destruction is that there are only three shuttles left. That’s a good thing, when she thinks about it, but she doesn’t focus on that sense of victory for too long.

The fight is gruelling, but it continues. When Grantaire sees another body fall next to her, she looks for Enjolras - who’s still fighting. Some part of her feels like a twit for her relief at seeing Enjolras alive and still fighting, but she doesn’t think she knows how to live in a world without Enjolras. And watching her aim well-skilled shots at the enemy, Grantaire can breathe easier.

More than a third of the Minettia’s army’s been depleted, and Grantaire wishes they’d just give it the fuck up, but there’s little chance of that. Mabeuf aims his phaser at the underbelly of one of the raiders, and they fall with a shriek.

There’s an indistinct screech from the aviceptor above - and the raiders all seem to stop as one. One by one, they start flying back to their ship, and Grantaire holds her breath. This could be - is this their retreat? She doesn’t dare hope. But they all seem to be leaving, not coming back with weapons to murder them better.

Their fighters all start cheering. A laugh bubbles in Grantaire’s chest - they’ve won. She turns to Montparnasse, who’s grinning with his sharp teeth. He transforms back to his usual self - it’s a bit gruesome to look at his skin bubbling back to its normal colour, but Grantaire doesn’t let herself think about it. She throws her arms around him, and he chuckles into her shoulder.

And then Enjolras grabs her and spins her around - and Grantaire looks at her bruised - but still lovely - face with a grin.

“You were right.” Grantaire laughs, still giddy with joy. “We did it!”

Enjolras pulls her closer and kisses her full on the lips.

She hears someone yell over the noise and twists rapidly away from Enjolras - there’s one last raider, only inches away from them, about to take off.

Grantaire breathes a sigh of relief - probably too soon, because the wing of the last raider rises in the sky and Grantaire hisses at the close proximity to her. Their wing sweeps near her, but doesn’t touch her. Montparnasse isn’t so lucky. The blow hits him, and he falls to the ground with a thud.

Fear and fury rises in Grantaire’s stomach. She sets her phaser to stun and shoots at the raider before they make it to the aviceptor. They fall to the Earth with a loud crash.

The aviceptor takes off without them, hightailing away from Earth. Everyone watches with bated breath as the ship disappears through the hole in the sky.

And then, when the hole seals itself as though it was never even open, the celebration starts again.

-

Montparnasse is still lying unconscious on the ground - Grantaire’s breath catches in her throat. She knows ‘Parnasse better than most. He’s as self serving as they come, but he sacrificed that and fought with her.

She kneels at his side and cradles his face in her arms. There’s blood at the side of his mouth and his face is completely still - he looks like a corpse. Tears start to well up in Grantaire’s eyes at the thought.

She goes to check his pulse when a hand suddenly grips her arm. She chokes back a scream as she looks up at his face and sees his eyes twinkling in amusement.

“It’s nice to know you’ll cry at my funeral,” Montparnasse says. “But I heal pretty fast.”

“You’re such a twit,” she says, letting his head drop on the ground with a loud thump, but there’s still a laugh in her voice. If Montparnasse is being annoying, at least he’s doing it alive.

The blood at the side of his lips cracks as he grins. “So I’ve been told.”

They crack up, and it feels simple - like old times. And she knows that him being a sleeper isn’t going to come between them. When they finally stop laughing, Montparnasse looks at her and smiles sadly.

“I should probably go check on the bird.”

Right, Cosette. Grantaire hasn’t heard a sound from her, and looking around, she’s nowhere to be seen. Grantaire blows out a puff of air. She nods at Montparnasse, a grimness taking over her mood as they both shuffle to a stand. She lets Montparnasse go off to find Cosette and she scans the field for Enjolras.

She sees her talking to Zephine and Dahlia, both of them sweaty and tired but still standing. Grantaire hurries over to them - apparently mid-conversation, as Enjolras seems to be grilling them both.

“And the count?” Enjolras asks.  She’s a little breathless, but Grantaire can hardly blame her.

Zephine looks at her and lists calmly, “Seven raiders shuttled off. Eight killed. One stunned, waiting to be shuttled.”

Enjolras nods, taking in the damage.

“And on our side?” Grantaire asks, almost not wanting to know the answer. They all turn towards her, and Dahlia jumps a little at her presence before gracing Grantaire with a tiny smile.

Zephine’s expressionless expression turns into a frown. “Ten dead and six in critical condition.”

“We’ve called the hospital here, they’re sending ambulances as quickly as they can,” Dahlia says reassuringly.

Grantaire nods.

“I’ll shuttle off the last one,” Enjolras tells them, leaving no room for argument. “You guys should go take care of the wounded until help comes.”

Zephine and Dahlia nod and set off to follow her orders. Enjolras is very good at giving orders, Grantaire’s noticed.

Grantaire follows after Enjolras behind the three remaining shuttles. She’s struggling with the weight of the raider - of course she tried to carry one all by herself, why wouldn't she?

“Do you want some help with that?” Grantaire asks with a smirk, gesturing towards the raider’s lifeless form.

“Not particularly, no.” Enjolras turns to face her and smiles. “But you can stay, if you like. I mean, I’d like it if you stayed.”

Grantaire smiles back, and she’s about to reply when she notices what Enjolras hasn’t: the twitching of the raider’s wings.

The raider suddenly rushes to a stand, jumping in front of Enjolras, aiming for surprise - and it works - they loom over Enjolras before she has the chance to start fighting back. When Grantaire sees their claws raised, she acts without thinking -

She shoves Enjolras out of the way with all the weight in her body.

And she can’t find it in herself to feel sorry when she hears the loud thud, because the pincer that was about to latch on to Enjolras’ neck gets her in the arm.

The pain is agonizing, like hundreds of needles running through her body. Breathing gets harder and harder - her lungs just can't do this - andshe crumbles to her knees.

The injured raider is pushes out of her way and she faintly hears a loud crack - the snapping of a neck - before warm arms are wrapped around her shoulders.

They feel nice, those arms. Like home. She thinks it’s almost worth the pain to be able to be held like this. Grantaire wants to whisper something to that effect, because Enjolras is sobbing as she holds her - and it's terrible, it's worse than Cosette's scream for her father, it's the worst sound Grantaire's ever heard. Maybe if Enjolras understands how at peace she’s feeling amongst the pain, she’d stop.  She wants to do everything in her power to make sure that Enjolras never sounds like this again. She tries to lift her arm to cup Enjolras’ cheek in her palms, but her hands must have been turned to lead, because she can't lift them. She settles for making soft shushing sounds instead. Enjolras can't cry for her, Enjolras is too good to be this devastated.

“Don’t cry,” Grantaire says, trying to make her voice sound as strong as possible. She’s not sure if she’s succeeding but Enjolras stops crying.

She looks at Grantaire, her eyes wide. “You’re still here,” her voice cracks on the last word, and Grantaire smiles through her haziness.

“Mmn,” she whispers. “M’not going anywhere.”

“Please don’t,” Enjolras sobs. “I need you here. Just stay with me, okay?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire’s eyes flutter close. “I’m just - I’ll sleep for a bit.”

“Grantaire, _no_!” she hears Enjolras scream. She wants to acknowledge her, fight her dreary eyes - but

the noise sounds like it’s coming from a distance, and Grantaire can’t open her eyes any more.

She’s not dying.  She knows she’s not, she’s just … tired.  So very tired. Nothing’s wrong with that, right? With taking a little rest?

That’s the last thought she has before her mind drifts, far, far away, and then - into darkness.

-

When Grantaire wakes up, she instantly knows that she’s not awake. She can’t be. This place, wherever she is, is both familiar and not. It feels like she’s been here before - been to this hazy meadow with colourful flowers everywhere, red and yellow and purple lying amongst the green. It makes her itch for a paintbrush.

The field of flowers looks endless. She’s on her back, her face to the side.

She doesn’t even notice she has company until the other person settles down next to her.

Grantaire doesn’t see anything but white cloth for a while, not until she bothers to look up. When she does, she sees a blonde, Korean lady with closely cropped yellow hair. She’s smiling down kindly at Grantaire - and if it were any other time, she’d feel threatened. But here, she doesn’t. So she stays lying down, keeps quiet.

She’s not sure how much time passes as they both sit in silence. The sky doesn’t get any darker, and the sun doesn’t move from its place in the sky. It’s almost as though the earth is standing still.

“Is this real?” Grantaire finally asks.

The woman next to her doesn’t startle. It’s almost as though she expected the question.

“This is very real,” she replies.

“So, are you here to _take me to the other side_?” Grantaire can barely keep the mockery from her voice, even as she voices the main concern she’s had since she waking up.

The woman smiles indulgently. “No, I’m afraid not.”

“Aww, but that sounded like so much fun,” Grantaire complains, good-naturedly. She shrugs before getting up. She’s not wearing her green suit, she notices - she’s wearing a hospital gown that chafes against her skin, but still doesn’t feel uncomfortable. Nothing really feels anything for her- it’s a strange and unsettling peace.

“What is this?” Grantaire asks.  Her curiosity’s getting the better of her at last.

“This is whatever you want it to be,” the lady replies calmly.

“Cut the cryptic bullshit, Yoda,” Grantaire says, not unkindly but not pleasantly either.

The woman chuckles and the sound reminds Grantaire of Cosette for some reason. “I’d heard you wouldn’t be the type to like that.”

“Who’d you hear _that_ from?” Grantaire asks.

“You’re in a sedative state,” the woman says, ignoring Grantaire’s last question. “This is what happens when people like us fall into comas - your brain’s connected itself to the energy of the last protector that died on Earth to keep it safe, in order to keep your motors running.”

“Which is … you?” Grantaire asks. She knows she’s not immortal, just very durable, but given Valjean ad Fauchelevent and all the other protectors who’ve lived for centuries, this woman is exceedingly young in comparison.

“So … Are _you_ real?” Grantaire asks.

“In a sense.”

The woman stands up and starts walking away from Grantaire which - not cool. She needs to understand what’s happening here.

“Oi!” she shouts.  She runs after the blonde lady. “What the fuck?”

“You have a choice Grantaire,” the woman says, her voice grim. “You can stay here or you can go back.”

“Go back how?” Grantaire asks, because that’s really all she’s been trying to do since she woke up.

“Time passes differently on this plane, Grantaire,” the woman says. Grantaire doesn’t even bother asking her how she knows her name. “You don’t have long.”

“I don’t have long _for what_?” Grantaire asks, frustrated.

The lady grips Grantaire by the shoulder and looks at her, with thoughtful, hazel eyes. “To wake up. Wake up, Grantaire!”

A chill falls down her spine at the woman’s words - but she doesn’t have any time to focus on why, because she hears a familiar voice whispering brokenly, “Please wake up.”

_Please wake up._

Grantaire looks at the blonde woman in front of her, nodding at her sadly - and she does. She doesn’t know how, but she does. One minute she’s looking at a kind-eyed blonde woman in the middle of a light, beautiful meadow - and the next, all she can see is darkness.

She hears Enjolras’ voice whispering to her and feels a hand holding hers but all she can see is black. It takes her a moment to understand why: her eyes are shut and she can’t open them. She can’t move and let Enjolras know she’s okay, not matter how much she wants to. She’s utterly paralysed.

“Just do it,” another voice says, firmly. “You’ve done it before.” She knows that voice, too - it’s Floreal, her old friend. She doesn’t know who Floreal is talking to or what the “it” is that ey wants her to do, but before she can think too much about it, she feels soft lips ghosting against hers. The scent Enjolras’ shampoo invade her nostrils - she smells like berries.

Grantaire wants to kiss back, but she can’t, and it pisses her off.  And yet somehow, she starts to feel pins and needles in her toes. She tries to wiggle them, but she can’t. She still can’t move and she feels Enjolras pull away from her - which is worse. She wants Enjolras’ lips on hers again.

The movement in her body is coming back far too slowly for her taste. She experiments with it: she tries to wiggle her toes. She feels them twitch a little, but it’s not enough to alert anyone to her state of consciousness. She tries to move her, fingers but that’s a no go. She groans in frustration - this is fucking ridiculous. She’s so pissed off that she barely hears the gasps coming from three different people, and she doesn’t get why. All she’s done is groan a little. It’s not like it’s because she’s in pain, and - oh. She groaned. She made a noise.

She tries to move her facial muscles, which works a little.

“What’d you just say?” she hears Enjolras ask, breathlessly.

“Kiss me again,” Grantaire mumbles, her eyes still shut. She hears Enjolras let out a strangled laugh, and she blinks her eyes open. It takes a fuckload of effort, but she doesn’t want to miss that - she doesn't want to miss the joy on Enjolras' face.

It takes her a moment to adjust to the light, and it makes her eyes ache, but it’s worth the pain to see Enjolras’ smiling face. Her eyes are watering, and Grantaire frowns a little at that.

“Don’t cry,” she says softly.

Enjolras huffs silently, and she takes Grantaire’s hand in hers again. “Now, where have I heard that before?”

Grantaire remembers, very vaguely, the words she spoke to Enjolras when she felt like her world was about to end.

She sees Irma and Floreal leaving the room out of the corner of her eye, Floreal sending her a wink as ey goes. She smiles to herself - it’s nice to see some things haven’t changed.

“Hi,” Enjolras says, gripping Grantaire’s hand. Grantaire tries to squeeze back, but she can’t quite make her fingers work. “I’m going to need you to stop doing this, okay? I don’t know if I can handle it a third time.”

“Hi,” she settles for replying - and apparently it’s enough, because Enjolras’ face breaks into a smile that could light up the Eastern Seaboard.

-

Enjolras does a pretty good job at nursing her back to health. It’s not all that surprising, since Enjolras is amazing at everything. She almost never leaves her side, and Grantaire is grateful for the constant company. She feels like she’s going out of her mind, holed up in a hospital room, unable to do anything. The doctors pretty much act like she’s a freakshow - either tiptoeing around her or gawking as though she’s a science experiment - and if she didn’t have Enjolras there, she’s sure she would have punched one of them by now.

A lot of people visit her while she’s in the hospital, her parents included. It’s a bit of an awkward visit given the circumstances, but Grantaire appreciates it nonetheless.

Mabeuf comes by a lot to drop off some books for her, “to do some light reading,” as he says. Grantaire doesn’t know what his concept of light is, because she can barely lift the encyclopaedia-sized books he brings, some of Aracletria and some from Earth. She doesn’t quite have the heart to tell him that she hasn’t opened any of them yet, and she still quite likes his company. Fauchelevent stops by with him sometimes, and even Miss Hucheloup comes by to see how she’s doing to and check on Enjolras, to make sure she’s actually eating and sleeping. Dahlia and Zephine visit her a few times, both of them stopping by to make idle conversation. Zephine is actually incredible at keeping her up to date with all the television she’s been missing, since this crappy hospital doesn’t even have cable.

Montparnasse, Floreal and Irma are the most constant visitors, outside of Enjolras. They’re the people Grantaire’s most familiar with, in any case, and they’re all good at keeping her spirits up. Montparnasse seems to be having a good time with the wary truce he and Enjolras have established, and he keeps finding joy at the different colours he manages to make Enjolras turn with his teasing. Grantaire doesn’t even try stopping him. She knows him - he’d just mock her even harder, and Grantaire would never admit it out loud, but she kind of enjoys it.

Cosette only visits her once, which Grantaire understands. She comes with Marie and forces a smile on her face for her, but Grantaire can see the despair in her eyes. It’s pretty impossible to hide, especially with Marie refusing to let go of her hand.

It takes her a few weeks before she can leave the hospital, and the first thing she does is call Combeferre to see how he’s doing. Enjolras told her that he woke up, but she still needed to see for herself. He seems to be doing pretty well. Courfeyrac’s face is bright as they chat with them eagerly, but Combeferre is all decorous silence as he looks indulgently at Courfeyrac. They don’t talk for long because both Combeferre and Grantaire need their rest - their respective partners are adamant about it.

Grantaire’s getting a bit sick of resting, truth be told.

She’s currently bundled up with blankets, lying on the sofa as she watches the news. A lot has happened during the few days she was out of commission, and she’s barely caught up. The next time she sees Cosette and Marie, what she should do is thank them profusely.

The first thing she sees when she gets a newspaper in her hand in a pretty iconic photo of her and Enjolras, flying side by side in the air. Enjolras is aiming a kick at a raider, and Grantaire is zooming around her to shoot at them. It almost looks like a real superhero picture. Grantaire notices that the only pictures shown are the ones of her and Enjolras. There are quite a few with the team they fought with, of course, but none of the past protectors have been outed to anyone who didn’t fight with them, which was a clever trick.

Grantaire’s seen a bunch of articles about it, too, although she only reads the one by Cosette and the two by Mabeuf. All three articles talk up Enjolras’ and Grantaire’s bravery all while making subtle jabs at the fact that this was a forewarned threat and they weren’t given any help by any government officials, except for one. There’s a lot of talk about the lord mayor and how he died trying to protect planet Earth. Grantaire feels a sort of happiness from reading about it - that’s always how Jean Valjean’s going to be remembered from now on. Not as a criminal, but as a hero.

And now, the government’s been forced to thank them for their bravery in saving the Earth. Grantaire isn’t sure that they’re trusted, but a shaky, uneasy peace has settled between them. They’re safe, for now.

It’s sort-of funny - the entire situation has actually managed to make them even more popular (which Grantaire isn’t actually sure she’s happy about) as the situation’s been framed in a way that makes it seem like she and Enjolras succeeded because of human bravery, and media outlets are lapping it up. She takes a breath as she turns off the telly.

The door leading to the roof is open, and Grantaire heads out, hoping to see Enjolras sitting out there, looking at the sunset with cool, appraising eyes.

Grantaire supposes that beauty _should_ be able to judge beauty.

She isn’t there, though, to Grantaire’s dismay, which means she must not be home, since Grantaire hasn’t heard her around. She goes to the edge of the roof and sits on the ledge anyway. She sort-of understands why Enjolras likes it out here so much - it gives you room to think.

She knows that they’ve won, but she can’t help thinking about what they lost.

Loss is inevitable - and Grantaire never thought that she’d be the one beating this drum, but it’s something she’s learned to be true. They lost so much in the battle.

Watching Cosette grieve over her father has been something of a sobering experience. Marie is never a step away from her, and it’s obvious that they’re the one helping Cosette through this ordeal.

Enjolras has been quiet about it. She knew how much Enjolras respected the lord mayor, but she doesn’t talk about it, and Grantaire doesn’t know how much she should push. She and Enjolras have been in a strange place since Grantaire’s made it back from the hospital - Enjolras is inordinately gentle around her in a way that Grantaire’s not used to. Grantaire knows it’s because she’s still recovering and Enjolras doesn’t want to break her, but she can get by without being treated like glass.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Enjolras says, coming up behind her. Grantaire didn’t even hear her coming out.

Grantaire smiles weakly as she looks behind at Enjolras, then holds out the edge of her blanket for her. Enjolras joins her, tugging the blanket over her shoulder and letting herself be folded into the warmth.

Enjolras slings her hand around Grantaire’s shoulders and Grantaire tucks her face in the crook of Enjolras’ neck. Enjolras smells the same way she usually does, like berries and a hint of sweat. It’s comforting.

They sit silently and look at the view. It’s quite an amazing one, with the red-orange flush that’s cast over the sky pulling everything around it into its glow.

“You know,” Enjolras says finally, “Mabeuf told me something when you were … asleep.”

“You mean, when I was in that coma?”

Enjolras tightens her grip on her. “Yes.”

“Well,” Grantaire says, after a moment of silence. “What’d the old codger say?”

“He said that we should learn to be more open with each other.”

Grantaire shifts uncomfortably. She thinks she has an idea of where this is going.

“And?” she presses, resting her chin on Enjolras’ shoulder and tilting her face upwards so she can see Enjolras’ face.

“He also said that you weren’t sure what we were to each other,” Enjolras goes on. “Is that true?”

Grantaire shrugs a little. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“R,” Enjolras says, her tone almost scolding.

Grantaire fits her face back into the curve of Enjolras’ neck. She’s comfortable there, and she doesn’t have to put up with Enjolras’ scrutinising gaze.

“I love you,” Grantaire whispers, into the hollow of Enjolras’ throat. “You know I do. Our relationship just feels undefined sometimes, that’s all.”

“Undefined?” she asks and Grantaire can hear the confusion in her voice.

“I love you. You’re the most important person in my life, but sometimes, I just don’t know what you are to me. I know where you fit, but not what _we_ are. Together.”

“I’m your partner Grantaire,” Enjolras says. “In every way possible. You have to know that.”

“I do,” Grantaire replies. “I just ... I forget sometimes.”

“Well, you shouldn’t.” Enjolras drops a kiss on the top of her head. “You should always know exactly where we stand.”

“And why’s that?” Grantaire asks, amused.

“Because we have a world to protect, remember?” Enjolras says, simply. “The both of us. We have to be on the same page, always. We have to do it together.”

“Together,” Grantaire agrees. Enjolras wraps her arms around her, tighter.

They don’t say anything else - they just look out at the darkening sky and the world that they’ve claimed as theirs to protect.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I have a [tumblr](http://ladytaire.tumblr.com/)!!! Come say hi!!!


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